


The Disappearance of Connor Anderson

by Little_Red92



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, Father-Son Relationship, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-06-22 04:16:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 130,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15573564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Red92/pseuds/Little_Red92
Summary: No one ever thinks it’s going to happen to them. But it did, oh God it did, and it’s left him paralysed, unable to process, to breathe. He needs to breathe, can feel his body heating up, short-circuiting as the gasoline ignites. He could self-destruct, he could die and, at this moment, with pain taking over every inch of him, maybe that wouldn't be such a terrible thing. There'd be nothing. No pain, no phantom hands on his skin, no memories, just darkness. He doesn't want to die, doesn't want Hank to be alone, to suffer another loss. If he died it would be for good this time; there are no more RK800 vessels to be put in, they were destroyed after the uprising.Death would truly be the end.





	1. Where He Went

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a few months since my last fic (though I have quite a few pieces half written) after watching JackSepticEye play Detroit: Become Human I fell in love with the game (mostly Connor, Markus and Hank) I actually finally purchased the game and burrowed a ps4 from a friend so I can play it myself as I want to immerse myself in this world even more. Which brings me to this fic, it's not a light read, and the subjects matters will be handled with great. This idea came to me in pieces; it's inspired by parts of Henry Coles story from Impulse and episode ten of the Bold Type season 1 (Carry The Weight) It's going to be an emotional ride, but I do promise a happy ending, and I don't currently have a beta so I apologise for any spelling or grammar errors. 
> 
> Lastly, this story takes place ten months after the android rebellion (post best ending)

There’s mud in his mouth, thirium trickling down his face, dripping steadily into the dirty water he lays in. Thunder rumbles through the darkening sky in warning of an oncoming storm. Connor’s systems scream at him to get up, vision flickering, audio input nothing but static blasting in his head. He wants to call for help, but his mind is scrambled, head pounding. God everything hurts. Pain is so new to Connor, his first experience had only been days ago, a burn caused by a casserole dish, white and hot pulsating pain that had him grinning. He felt very alive in that moment, so beautifully human and when the burn faded, and the synthetic skin healed over, he almost missed the sensation.

This pain wasn’t like that of the burn, it was bone-deep, spreading through him like gasoline. It was all consuming and Connor couldn’t make it stop, couldn’t get his system to reboot, to switch into repair. Maybe it’s because he wasn’t safe here, lying in a puddle, bleeding out and falling apart in ways he didn’t even know were possible. His programming was trying to protect him, but why hadn’t it before? Why hadn’t he been strong enough to stop  _him_? He wanted Reed to stop, begged him to stop, but he didn't. Instead, he smashed Connor’s head into the dashboard, vision going off-line, when it flickered back on, not fully functional, Detective Gavin Reed was forcing the seat back, climbing on top of him.

Connor shudders at the images flashing through his head, he feels nauseated, wishes he could be sick, so he could purge himself of the feeling. But androids can’t throw up, they shouldn’t feel pain or nausea, yet Connor does. It’s all he can feel. He wished he never deviated, wished he could sit up, brush himself off and walk this off like it was just a minor inconvenience. But it’s not. He was assaulted, attacked by someone he knows, who he works with. Statistically speaking the victim will know their assailant, he just never thought it would happen to him

No one ever thinks it’s going to happen to them. But it did, oh God it did, and it’s left him paralysed, unable to process, to _breathe_. He needs to breathe, can feel his body heating up, short-circuiting as the gasoline ignites. He could self-destruct, he could die and, at this moment, with pain taking over every inch of him, maybe that wouldn't be such a terrible thing. There'd be nothing. No pain, no phantom hands on his skin, no memories, just darkness. He doesn't want to die, doesn't want Hank to be alone, to suffer another loss. If he died it would be for good this time; there are no more RK800 vessels to be put in, they were destroyed after the uprising.

Death would truly be the end.

He doesn’t know how to survive this, though. How does anyone survive having such cruel things done to them? Perhaps he doesn’t have to; he can erase the feel of Detective Reed’s hands on his bare thighs, his hot breath against the back of his neck. Can remove the brutal sensation of Reed forcing himself inside, the weight of his body pressing his down into the seat. Connor can forget the sound of him panting in his ear, the cruel things he whispered as he violated him. He has the power to make it all go away, to delete every fucking second of it, from the smell of tobacco to the hand grasping his crotch. No one will ever have to know, the shame, the fear will not follow him from this dark place.

It’s difficult to focus, to search his system while its fritzing, but he tries, tries really fucking hard but he is too damaged, and the memories refuse to be removed. Something in his hardware won’t let him forget, at least not right now. If Connor repairs the tears in his skin, the damage to his body, his face, then he can erase this. Pretend it never happened. Gritting his teeth, mustering all his strength he rises on unsteady legs, vision tunnelling, hearing coming in and out of focus. The first step feels like fire, like he's being torn open from the inside all over again. The world spins madly around him, Connor staggers forward, the car is only a few feet away, but it might as well be miles.

The world slowly rights itself, though it’s only half there and what can be seen is fuzzy around the edges, speckled with flashing alerts. The right eye is damaged, having taken the blunt force of the dashboard, it could be irreparable. There are spares at home, tucked away in the back of his wardrobe. Hank doesn't like it when he loses body parts, hates it even more when he has to watch Connor remove a damaged part and replace it. Hank’s heart would break if he saw him like this. Connor won’t break his heart, not after he promised to be more careful, especially now he could feel pain. Hank will never have to know; no one will ever have to learn of what happened here tonight. Connor just has to make it to the car, _make it home_ and everything will be alright.

Everything will be alright once he is repaired, once the memory has been deleted. Just keep walking, breathe through the pain, hold on a little longer. Connor fumbles with the door handle, fingers slippery with thirium, shaking so fiercely he wasn’t even able to button his jeans. He collapses into the car in an ungrateful heap, hating the sensation of fabric against his cheek, the confined space, the feel of a body pinning him down. Bolting upright leaves him dizzy, vision clouding and hearing cutting out. Panic seizes him, it burns through him, wrapping tight around artificial lungs. It feels like dying.

Body giving in, Connor falls back against the seat, fighting off the memories, telling himself the car doesn’t smell of sweat and sex, it smells like pine, like plastic. He breathes it in, fingers curling around the edge of the seat, leather not worn fabric, not scratchy or old. The rundown neighbourhood and abandoned house are in the rear-view mirror by the time Connor has regained some semblance of control. Though it’s very little, he’s honestly not sure if this all just a fantasy, an escape from the ordeal and he is actually still lying in the mud. Is still lying under _him_.

The car hitting a pothole jars Connor back to reality, pain bursting behind his eyes. His head is throbbing, body aching deeply, in places he wished it didn't. Fear returns, tears filling his eyes as a frustrated cry escapes into the air. He bangs his fist against the seat, fighting against the reality of what has happened, the unfairness of it all. Once he is home, once he is safe this can all be forgotten. Nothing more than a bad dream. Not that Connor forgets things, every day, every second is tucked away in his mind, a library of events stored within to be looked over at any time. Mechanical memories, a mind palace built to store information, not times spent bonding with Hank over sports or music, or hours spent watching Markus paint.

Connor wasn't built to be human, to have emotions and the psychical sensations that went along with them. He wasn't designed to feel love or happiness, to be stricken by fear or taken by sorrow. He was supposed to be a machine, that's what Reed said he was, a machine, a tool, nothing but a toy to use. That's what he felt like, a broken device ready to be scrapped. Delete everything and hollow him out, take off the synthetic flesh and replace it, scrub him clean and send him back into the world without feelings. Unmake him. Remake him into someone who doesn't feel like their non-existent heart has been shattered. Bring him back to life, for he feels like a part of him has died, will forever be left lying in the mud.

The car coming to a stop, the gentle pitter-patter of rain and distant bark of Sumo draws Connor back to the present. Shakily he crawls out of the car, staggering up the front path to the front door, fumbling for the keys before letting himself in. The house is quiet, Sumo's bark echoes from the backyard, the air is still, undisturbed. Briefly, he wonders where Hank is, but he'd been in a lousy mood when Connor left to follow the newest lead on the red ice case, so he's probably at his favourite bar by now. Connor understood Hank's anger; they'd been chasing after dealer after dealer lately, trying to find the head of the red ice operation and each dead end left Hank in a dark mood. These dark moods lead to Hank buying a cheap bottle of whiskey or sneaking off to Jimmy's bar to drown his sorrows without Connor's disapproving stare.

Connor did everything in his power to keep Hank from sinking into desolation, all this drinking wasn't good for his health, and though Connor hadn't said, he doesn't know what he'd do without him. Hank was his friend, a father-figure he wasn't designed to need, yet he did. He needed him, he needed him now, so fucking much and Hank would be here in a heartbeat if Connor called. He'd take care of him the way he had so many other times. Patch him up the way he did when Connor took a built from a kid high on red ice or help him re-attach an arm after having it ripped clean off by a rogue android. Hank hated when he was hurt, he blamed himself, even when it wasn't his fault.

And this, _this_ was his fault. Connor failed the mission, was unable to protect himself and he promised Hank he'd be careful. Hank didn't want Connor going alone, even though he was tired and hungover he tried to insist on coming along. Connor pointed out he was more than capable of getting the job done; it's what he was built for. The perfect detective, always successful, just not this time. Or perhaps he was, to be honest, he doesn't remember anything from before he found himself in Reed's truck. Can't even remember why he got into the old beat up Honda SUV or if he chose to get in. It had been raining, they'd been arguing, Reed was acting like a dick as usual, but it was more, he was angry, was seething.

Why was he there? He hadn’t been at the station that day, Connor felt relieved that he didn't have to deal with Reed's snide remarks and unfriendly demeanour. He hadn't given much more thought to Reed's absence, was too busy trying to keep Hank from starting a war with the Captain. The missing time should be alarming, data isn't meant to just vanish, maybe the blow to the head has caused worst damage than expected. He should try finding the lost footage, it could be corrupted or damaged but if he remembers the before then it might trigger the _after,_ and he just wants to forget. Reed is a detective, he was probably there for the same reason Connor was, why bother over such an insignificant thing?

He just wants it to be over.

He’s barely managed to make it to the bathroom, can feel his system shutting down. He doesn’t want to shut down, for Hank to come home and find him like this. He has to hold it together, hold on just a little longer. Avoiding his reflection, Connor strips, limbs stiff, pain following every movement. Glancing down at himself, he does a quick visual analyse of the damage, there isn’t much to see, where he feels phantom hands there are no marks, for his skin does not bruise. The only evidence is the blue and white trailing down his inner thighs. Thirium… _his_ seed. Oh, God. It hits him like a speeding train, the brutal reality of the situation tearing him apart, sending him crashing to his knees. He was raped. He was raped by a co-worker in the front seat of his car. 

A sob tears from his throat, it aches, sounds wrong, sound inhuman to his ears. He hasn’t ever felt this hopeless, this broken, not even when he was responsible for Jericho’s destruction did he feel like this. It hurts, it’s rippling through him in waves, shredding him apart, shattering the life he’s built. The tears won’t stop, his throat hurts from the abuse, every inch of him aches, feels tarnished. Tainted. Ruined. He needs to forget, needs to make the pain stop, needs it all to stop.

With tears in his eyes and body trembling with sobs, in shock, Connor turns the shower on, crawling into the tub and curling up under the spray. The water cascades over him, washing away the thirium, the smell of him, the trace of him. The phantom touch remains, the feeling of dirty, of wrong overwhelming. He needs to be clean. Sobs, as he scrubs at his skin, thinks maybe he should remove it, but Reed's touch goes deep, sinks into these very bones.

He scrubs so fiercely skin tears away, healing only moments later. The pain is fading, the warning signs calming as the sense of safety allows his body to begin repairing. Dropping the sponge, watching the blue-tinged water trickle down the drain he decides its time. Eyes fluttering shut, world vanishing around him, Connor returns to the abandoned house, can feel the rain against his skin, smell the earth. He is standing outside with Detective Reed, smoke from a cigarette hangs in the air, Connor should shut off his sense of smell, but he feels so human these days he forgets that it's an option.

But he’s not human; he is wires, biocomponents and computer chips. Things can be forgotten; memories can be rearranged, a traumatic event swept away, replaced with something else, something that won’t bring his world crashing down. He could just delete the file, tear the slot from the archive, but it’s better to have an altered scenario rather than a blank space. The image of him and Reed standing in the rain dissolves, replaced with Connor entering the house. It’s a mess inside; Hank would have hated it. He doesn’t find anyone or traces of red ice, it’s another dead end and as he is about to leave when he falls through the splintered timber flooring and lands in a heap on the ground floor below.

It hurts, he is damaged, and the pain makes him tremble, shock pulsating through his system but he makes it to the car. He makes it home to here, to right now. He opens his eyes, rising to his feet, unsure of why he was sprawled on the shower floor. He shrugs it off; the fall has done considerable damage, it’s time to run diagnostics and switch into repair mood. Hank will have a heart attack if Connor switches off where he stands, it’d be rude of him to not return to his room, and to be honest, he just wants to lie down right now.

In a trance, Connor dries, stuff his mud-streaked, thirium covered and rain-soaked clothes into the wash basket and heads to his bedroom. Throwing on some clothes he crawls into bed, not that he needs to, a machine doesn't need comfort or warmth, yet the sheets feel so soft, his room so safe. He's tired, drained, so close to passing out. He chooses to go into hibernate; the software will take care of everything. He can just rest, forget the feel of rain, the fright of the fall, the smell of Tobacco.

He slips deep into his mind, curious of the last thought but too far gone to chase after it.

**XxX**

The sun finally returns in the morning; it seems like it's been years since the sky was picture perfect blue, the endless grey days had blurred together. Cold, bleak, hopeless, that's what Connor remembers feeling, feels a weight lift in his chest when he opens his eyes to find the sun filtering in through the blinds. Is internal clock reads 10:35, he should get up, cook Hank breakfast and take Sumo for a walk. The injuries have repaired overnight; there is no need to stay in bed. There are things that need to be done, but something keeps him here, unfocused eyes watching the dust motes dance in the sunbeams.

Something doesn't feel right. There is a sense of dread resting under his skin, a trickle of fear coiling around artificial lungs. He feels scared. There is no reason for these emotions; he is at full optimal compacity, the fall hadn't done any permeant damage like he feared, his right eye is back online, the throbbing in his skull gone. Shrugging off the strange surge of emotions, Connor forces himself to get up, making his way through the quiet house to the kitchen.

Hank is already awake, though by his mussed hair and bleary eye stare he hasn’t been up long. Connor smiles, it doesn’t seem to sit right, every step taken feels stiff, body wound tight like someone has rearranged his wires. Following routine he sets about making Hank breakfast, collecting the bacon and eggs from the fridge. As part of the deal to Hank starting a healthy diet Connor agreed he could have bacon on the weekends. Going through the motions, he fries the bacon, crispy, poaches the eggs, sensing Hank’s gaze follow his every move.

“Is there something wrong?” Connor asked, looking over his shoulder at Hank.

"You tell me," he said gruffly, sipping his coffee.

"I'm going to take that as yes then" by now he can read between the lines, he's spent enough time with Hank to have categorised every mood. He doesn't even need to analyse the micro-expression or stress levels emitting from Hank; he just knows the tone. "I did something to upset you" he sets the plate on the table, pulling up a chair next to Hank. Just because Connor knows when Hank is upset or frustrated with him doesn't mean he knows why. Connor keeps a mental list of Hank's moods, has a whole section dedicated to ‘reasons Hank is upset with me' but he doesn't have all day to go over it, it's better just to say, "I'm afraid I don't know what it is."

“You never came back to the station yesterday.”

Connor's brow furrows, vision flickering as fear sparks through him, for a moment he is pulled from the safe confines of the kitchen, slammed to the ground under a rain-laden sky. The kitchen returns, warm sun spilling in through the window. The word safe surfaces, appearing right over Hank's face. He is safe. Shaking the strange occurrence from his head, he opens his mouth to respond. "I may have had an accident" he remembers the shudder, the loud crack as the wood splintered, the fall, the pain of landing, but it doesn't feel like it belongs to him. The footage appears the way an old photograph would, discoloured, edges torn.

“An accident?” Hank exclaims “and you didn’t fucking call me?”

“I was fine” he hurries to soothe Hank’s anger, probably should have begun at the start, but he can’t seem to remember, the recording is there, it’s just… not resonating. Like it’s a false memory, a movie starring someone long gone. “I was searching through the house when the floor collapsed underneath me.” He can feel himself frowning, senses something uncomfortable awaken in his gut, tries to ignore the warning pop up. “I wasn’t badly injured, so I didn’t see it necessary to call you.” The pain had been agonising though, every step like fire, head splitting open and body aching deeply. “I came home, showered and went to bed. I should have called, but I didn’t want you to worry.”

"Connor, you have started to feel pain, and you think it's okay for you not to call me when you get hurt?" Hank is upset, distressed. Connor doesn't know why he didn't report back to him or the Captain, the memory is so just so damn fuzzy. "I don't care if you get a fucking paper cut, you tell me okay."

"Understood" he nods, shrinking under the heavy weight of Hank's gaze. "I'm at full functioning capabilities, so I should write down my report and turn it into Captain Fowler."

“It’s our weekend off; it can wait” Hank waves it off, finally taking a bit of his breakfast. “Did you find anything before you brought the place down?”

"Nothing" He found nothing right? No red ice, no dealers or squatters, just an empty house. Hollow… the word flickers across Connor's field of vision; he blinks it away, fingers curling into fists, nails biting into synthetic flesh, it hurts, reminds him of something worse. Something so awful it made the word agony lose all meaning. He shakes the words away, thinks maybe he hit his head harder than he thought. "At least, I think I found nothing."

Hank stays silent, eyes clouding with concern.

"I remember sustaining a head injury in the fall" he rakes his fingers through his hair, frustrated, anxious. "I feel like I'm forgetting something" unconsciously he winds his arms tightly around his chest, he feels unsteady, fragile. Frightened. "What could I possibly be forgetting?"

"You sure you had a fall?" Hank has never sounded so soft, though there is a trickle of fear underlining his tone, "Because this story isn't adding up to me. You always have a crystal-clear recount of events, the most detailed reports I've ever seen, hell you add things I didn't even notice, but a lot is missing here Connor."

“I was designed with the perfect ability to analyse crimes scenes, I never miss anything” he offers a feeble smile, Hank isn’t impressed, he is worried and truthfully, so is he. “I must be suffering what you’d call amnesia.”

“Well, if you did take a fall that makes perfect sense,” he leans back in his chair, thoughtful, though Connor can still detect a certain level of stress. “So, what do we do about it?”

"We return to the scene of the crime," returning to the house could jolt his memory, if the data is missing or damaged it might not do him any good, but he can't shake the sense of unease. "I'm not sure it will jog my memory as if data has been lost it's not easy to retrieve, but I'm deviant now, things might work differently." He shrugs, hoping he appears casual like this is just another job when in truth, fear is about to rip him apart. He doesn't know what he's so afraid; it's not like he hasn't been injured before.

"Alright, let me finish up here, and we'll go."

"I'll get ready myself" Connor rises, feeling unsteady. There is no reason to feel this way; he is okay, nothing happened.

He is fine.

***

He's not fine. The house is looming over him, blotting out the sun, stirs awake panic, makes his breathing hitch. Connor can taste mud on his tongue, feel water on his fingertips. He is unravelling, and he doesn't know why. Choosing to ignore the storm unfolding in his mind, Connor climbs the rotting staircase, following Hank inside. It's like any other abandoned home in Detroit, walls marked with graffiti, floors strewn with litter and dust, windows covered in grime, some shattered, glass glistening like tears on the floor. There are signs that people have been here, a few candles here and there and fresh embers in the fireplace. There is nothing sinister lurking within these walls, yet every step has Connor's stress rising, has fear pulsating through his wires.

The house is in ruins, a strong gust of wind could bring it down like a house of cards. Connor can relate, a whisper, a word and he'd fall apart, but he can't understand why. The place is in disarray, but there is no sign of a gaping hole in the floor. It doesn't add up, there is footage of it happening, but it's not clear, it's more like peering through murky water. Hank is asking him if he's sure this is the right address, which of course it is, that kind of information doesn't get jumbled, he's designed to remember, to take in the smallest of details. To not miss a thing.

But something is missing here; there is footage stored of an event that he isn't sure even took place and there is gasoline flooding his system, filling up his lungs. He's scared. Doesn't want to be here any longer, so he takes off down the stairs, ignoring Hank shouting after him, and stumbles out into the daylight. It's dark, rain landing steadily against his skin, catching in his lashes. His vision flickers and the sun is back, sky clear and cloudless overhead.

Light winks to him from a puddle near the road, luring him over, promising secrets he isn't sure he wants to know. Body moving on its own accord he is pulled towards the water, mind revolting against every step, fear burning stronger the closer he gets. Stopping at the edge of the puddle, Connor peers into the murky water, finding something glistening in the muck. Part of him wants to turn around, to leave this place and forget all about these strange series of events, but he was designed to be curious, to solve the case. Connor reaches into the water, collecting the item in trembling fingers. He's not meant to shake either.

It's his coin. He knows this because he registers his fingerprints on it, knows the way it feels against his skin, can see the small groves where he'd been chewing at it in times of high stress. It's here because yesterday Connor had been dancing it over his knuckles as he followed Detective Reed to his red SUV. Reed tried to smack it from his hand, Connor had been faster, tucking it safely away in his coat pocket, smirking, smug. Reed had been here, they were arguing. Connor's head is suddenly full of noise, vision fritzing. He fights to stay, to stop the memories from rising to the surface, but he was foolish to think he could just forget, could erase what really happened here.

Connor never made it inside the house yesterday, he tried to go in, but Reed insisted there was nothing to be found. He'd searched already, just rats and spiderwebs to be seen. Reed was acting suspicious, Connor pushed the matter, and he grew hostile, dragging him down the path towards his truck. His grip had hurt, had been strong, almost inhumanly strong. Connor swallowed the trickle of fear and stayed composed, he could stay here all night if he had too, but he was going inside. He said as much, with a smug tone and a cocky grin as he danced the coin over his knuckles.

It was a mistake, something in Reed snapped. He tried knocking the coin from Connor's hand, but he'd been faster, tucking it away safely before Reed shoved him backwards with such force he fell to the ground. Connor shook it off, didn't listen to the warning alarms telling him to leave, to just go, get far away from here. God he should have run, shouldn't have been so sure that nothing bad could happen to him. But he was more human than android these days, even if at that moment he forgot, and humans are so breakable. So easily taken apart.

Frustrated he shoves back, reigning in his strength, so he doesn't send Reed to the ground. The blow to his head that follows knocks him back down into the mud, pain ripples through him, hearing and vision momentarily going off-line. When Connor comes to he is in the front seat of SUV, the cabin smells of tobacco, and a combination of stale coffee and the remnants fast food, and the floor is strewn with burgar wrappers and receipts. He's scared now. Wants to get out but the door is locked, and Reed is sitting in the driver's seat, seething.

He's high. He's on something, and Connor didn't even notice. His head hurts too much to analyse the drug pulsating through Reed's system, but he has this sinking feeling he knows exactly what he's taken. Knowing is not essential, what is paramount is getting the hell out of here. He's about to break the window, not caring that it will hurt, the primal fear, the urge to run is stronger. Reed turns to him, a dangerous glint in his eyes, a twitch of madness to his lips and before Connor can escape, he is reaching for him. A hand lands between Connor's legs, grip painful, systems failing as panic surges through his processer, leaving him paralysed.

This isn’t okay; Reed can’t touch him like this. It hurts, it’s sending thirium pumping to his face, colouring it blue in humiliation. Reed smirks, devilish and deranged, leaning over to whisper in Connor’s ear, ‘I’ve been waiting a long time to find out what you’ve got between your legs’ his grip tightens, bringing tears to Connor’s eyes. He tilts his head towards Connor’s face, hot, stale breath ghosting over his lips, the smell of coffee and tobacco clogging up his nostrils. ‘You hiding anything else?’ he asks, leaning in to force his lips to Connor’s, teeth sinking into his bottom lip, drawing thirium.

Connor can't move, can't analyse the tastes on his tongue; there are just warning signs screaming at him, nothing else matters but self-preservation.  He does not flee. Knows he should, should do anything but allow Reed to undo his jeans and slip a hand under the waistband of his briefs. This isn't happening; this shouldn't be happening. Reed's touch is like fire, _is wrong_ , not at all like Connor's own curious touch or Markus's tender strokes, dedicated to bringing pleasure. Reed's grip is possessive, is painful, fingers keep searching, seeking, causing pain until Connor snaps out of his paralysed state. He slaps at Reed's arms, gripping his wrist tightly, removing Reed's hand from his underwear. He feels sick, hopes that it's over now.

“You can’t touch me like that” he wished he sounded strong, that his voice didn’t crack, words catching in his throat. “I’m alive; I feel pain. You can’t touch me like that again. I’d like to go home now please” he reaches for the handle, tugging at in hopes it will open, it doesn’t, he feels his non-existent stomach sink. “Gavin, let me out. Please.”

Connor’s words, his plead must trigger something primal deep inside Reed because he completely snaps, the next thing Connor recalls is his head colliding with the dash. Then Reed crawls on top of him; the seat is forced backwards. Connor struggles, he tries, he fights so fucking hard. He says stop. He screams. He swears, he begs, but Reed doesn’t stop. It hurts. It hurts so fucking much, and all he can do is cry and wait for it to stop. When it’s over, Connor lay there sobbing, mind spinning madly, body going into shut-down as the stress rises to critical. 

Connor was sure he would self-destruct right then and there. Reed would dump his body in the abandoned house or throw him into the ocean, but he survived. He made it home, removed the memory and replaced it with something that wouldn't shatter his world. The memory, _the truth_ has come back in roaring colour, is a hurricane ripping him apart. The coin slips from his fingers, the present settling over him, a weight he cannot bear. Legs give out, sending him to the ground, to the same cold, muddy water he lay in last night.

A scream tears from his throat, guttural and broken, the sound of a life coming undone. The tears follow, heavy and steady as the rain that had beat against the roof. Every inch, every wire and fibre of his being fights against the truth, fights to repress the feel of _him,_ the memory of pain, the all-consuming fear. It's too late though, the truth is out, the floodgate opens, and there is no forgetting this time. This is his new reality, and it's violently taking him apart. He falls to ruins, curling in on himself, crying, drowning in agony.

“Connor, Connor.”

Hank’s panicked voice pierces through the dark, Connor can sense him nearby, wants nothing more than for him to take him home. To make this better, but there is no making this better.

“Son, hey, shh, you’re safe” strong hands rest on his shoulders, he flinches at the touch, pulling away in panic.

“Don’t touch me” he jumps to his feet, clothes soaked from where he collapsed in the water, but he doesn’t feel the cold, so it shouldn’t bother him. “I want to leave.”

“We will, Connor” Hank keeps his tone steady, hands held up, “But I need you to tell me what happened here yesterday.”

Connor shakes his head furiously, tears spilling down his face “I can’t… I can’t” he doesn’t want to say it aloud, doesn’t want Hank to know, it’ll break his heart. “Please, don’t make me, _please._ ”

Hank takes a tentative step forward, “Connor, it’s okay, you’re safe now. It’s just me” he takes another step. “Did someone hurt you?”

It's the smallest gesture, but the slight nod feels like the hardest thing he's ever had to do, wires pulling and resisting the motion.

“Did you see who it was?” Hank’s voice falters, Connor can’t meet his gaze, knows it’ll be full of despair.

"Yes," the word is sharp on his tongue, the name unspoken gasoline in his throat.

“Who was it Connor?” he has closed the distance between them, Connor can smell the cologne he bought him for his birthday last month, the scent calms him ever so slightly. Hank is safe. Hank is family.

The name crawls up his throat, leaves a bad taste in his mouth “It was… it was Detective Reed.”

Anger flashes through Hank's eyes, body going rigid, breath hitching with a spike of stress. He feels momentarily guilty for causing Hank distress, for being unable to protect himself in the first place, but the anger vanishes as quick as it came, and Hank is taking another tentative step towards him. "Connor, son, what did he do to you?" there is this look in Hank's eyes that shows he's already thinking the worst, it's his job to assume the worst, but Connor still can't bring himself to say it.

“He hurt me,” strings cut, he falls forward, Hank catches him just in time, he clings to him, crying, breaking. “He hurt me” he’s borderline hysterical, stress level rising to critical as the words tumble from his mouth, now unable to be kept silent any longer. “I told him to stop, but he wouldn’t stop. I… It hurt so much.”

"Hey, shh, you're safe now" Hank stepped back, holding him at arms-length. Connor hated how distraught he looked, could see the tears glistening in his blue eyes "Connor, I know you don't want to say it, but I need to know" he pauses, the unspoken words heavy in the air around them, a dark cloud descending over them, there to stay for the foreseeable future. "Did he rape you?"

The word ripples through him, sending shockwaves to every nerve, flaying every wire, he bows his head, closing his eyes to hold back the tears as he says, “y.... yes,” The truth tears through him, has the memories flickering in his mind, has him screaming in the unfairness of it all. Once more his legs give up on him, he is too heavy for Hank to hold up and they both fall to the ground. The tears won’t stop, the hurt won’t stop, and it would be so easy just to self-destruct, make all the pain go away for real this time. But Hank is holding him tight in his embrace, whispering nonsense words to soothe him, promising him that he is safe, that it’s over.

But it’s not over, this is just the beginning.


	2. All His Strings Broke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we dive into chapter two I want to say a big thank you to everyone who's left a lovely (if not slightly distressed) comment. Feedback is always lovely and deeply appreciated <3  
> And a big thanks to everyone for leaving reading and leaving kudos.  
> Without further ado, here is chapter 2, I suggest grabbing some tissues, brewing some tea and wrapping yourself in a blanket.  
> PS: again, sorry not beta'ed.

The world seems to vanish for a while, there one moment and simply gone the next. Connor just stops, like someone detached the strings holding him up, severed every wire holding him together. There is a blank space between him breaking down at the abandoned house and arriving at Detroit Memorial Hospital. It's disconcerting losing track of time, of the world around him. When his neural processor snaps back to life, it slams him back into his body. It's jarring, the world coming into focus in screaming colour and for a few terrifying moments, he doesn't know where he is. Familiar scents wash over him, the tiny Hawaiian dancer wobbling on the dash.

He feels so fragile, God he wasn't ever supposed to be this human, to have these kinds of emotions rattling around inside his mind. He may have been designed to be a deviant, but he's sure Cyberlife didn't want him to feel this much. They wanted a machine to control that had just enough emotional drive to lead the android rebellion, the ability to own his deviancy was a fault in his code. A fault he'd learnt to enjoy over the past ten months. Emotions had been challenging to get used too, they were delicate, complicated and at times wonderous. Learning to understand them had been challenging, working out the quirks of his body, _his mind_ had been one hell of a journey.  

He'd liked being alive, being able to feel things he was never meant to feel. Joy, wonder, curiosity, infatuation. He’s felt so much, good and bad, yet right now he can't feel a damn thing. It's unsettling, he'd been consumed by emotions only moments ago, now he can't even feel the prickle of tears. Is he broken? Hollowed out and left as a shell, a husk. A machine with no soul living inside it. Has Reed reduced him to even less than he was at the start? His hot breath had ghosted over Connor’s neck, words bitten into his skin. P _retty toy, machine, nothing but a plaything, but God damn, you feel so real_ _,_ repeated until they embedded in his bones.

Shivering at the words echoing through his mind, Connor forces himself back to the present, where he sits in the passenger seat of Hank’s car, the streamlined building towering over them. Above the sky is darkening, his internal weather app says rain is coming, will hit in thirty-five minutes and sixty seconds. There is a spark of something under his skin, codes and sequences giving him back his voice, an ember of emotion. “Why are we here?" he sounds so frail, voice hoarse and staticky.

Hank doesn't answer at first, stays staring out the windshield, gaze unfocused, body tense in distress. His knuckles are turning white as their grip tightens on the steering wheel, a rush of air expels from his lungs, and the focus returns to his eyes. Fingers loosen their grip on the wheel as Hank turns to face him, "We have two choices" his tone is steady, though the swirling emotions in his eyes give way to the turmoil brewing within. "I shoot Reed in the dick," he nods towards the building ", or we go inside, and I call an old friend of mine to take your statement."

Connor looks back towards the hospital, numbness giving way to dread. He doesn’t want to put himself through this, doesn’t want to be poked and prodded, searched for evidence that has been washed away. But he knows better; there could still be traces of semen inside him, the thought makes him ill, stirs awake an urge to shed his skin, find a new, untarnished body to live in. There are no more RK800 bodies for him to transfer into, there isn’t a second chance to erase what was done to him, and the file is corrupted, a patchwork mess of a fall that didn’t happen and the ugly truth.

It could have been so simple, transfer the evidence to the police and it would have been all over. He's only made this harder on himself. If he doesn't go inside, if this God-awful secret doesn't leave this car than Reed will get away with it.  Then on Monday morning, Connor will have to walk into the precinct and pretend like nothing happened. Who's he kidding, if he doesn't press chargers Hank will put a bullet in Reed, and he doesn't want that.

They are the law and if this were anyone else he'd tell them to do the right thing. The system will get justice for them, but he's an android, and even with Markus leading a peaceful resistance there is still a long way to go. They have been declared sentient and granted a section of Detroit to have as their own, but there is still an ongoing battle for their rights, to be accepted as more than conscious machines. Connor's not sure he can handle wadding into another fight. What if they don't believe him? What if this is his fault? He could have walked away, could have escaped the car, fought harder.

He drops his face into his hands, shoulders shaking under the strain of a repressed sob. He just wants to go home, to stay there until he can face the world again. He's so tired; he's never felt this exhausted before, didn't know he could. He wants to shut down for a week, a month, however long it takes for this nightmare to be over. It wouldn't change anything, he could wait a thousand years and when he rebooted he'd still feel the same. Pain demands to be felt and shutting it out, walking away isn't going to fix this.

Markus would tell him to go inside, to make Reed sorry for what he did, to make the world know they couldn't hurt them just because they weren't human. They were _alive_ , they had rights, and Connor had a duty to his people to do the right thing. He'd stood beside Markus in the rebellion, they'd grown close, so very close over the past seven months. Connor wished he was here, he'd say the right thing, the way he always did, and Connor would find the courage to go inside. Instead, he just feels empty, resents the idea of researching out to Markus. What would he think of him? Would he pity him, would he still look at him with admiration?

“I don’t know how to do this” he admitted, finally looking up, arms instinctively winding around his torso.

"We do it together" Hank tentatively places a hand on Connor's shoulder, he tries not to flinch at the touch, it's comforting, but it evokes a reaction that he doesn’t like. "Though the offer to shoot Reed is still on the table."

Connor laughs brokenly, quoting Markus “An eye for an eye and the world goes blind.”

“It’s not gonna miss a piece of shit like Reed” Hank reassured gruffly.

“No, but we’re supposed to be better than that.” It’s so easy to cause pain, suffering, all it took was thirteen minutes and twenty-five seconds for his world to come crashing down. Thirteen minutes and twenty-five seconds to destroy a life, to cause someone unimaginable pain. He doesn't want to be like that. He was so close to turning into a cold, ruthless machine, he's not going to backtrack now, and he isn't going to let Hank stray back into the dark either. He's come so far since Connor moved in after the uprising. Hank is far from perfect, but he is a good person with a kind heart. "You brought me here because it's the right thing to do, I trust your judgement, Hank."

“Yeah, well my main concern was making sure you weren’t hurt” he murmured, grimacing “I forget sometimes you have self-healing abilities.”

Connor had been hurt; he'd been in so much pain, the kind that consumed every inch of him. He doesn't want to tell Hank that though, doesn't want him to know how it felt like he was being torn apart, that his head felt like it would split open. His skin has regenerated overnight, injuries erased like they were never there. If he looked up at his reflection, if he scaled the world back to just details then he'd see the echo of the thirium glowing blue against his pale skin. If he slipped out of his jeans, there would be streaks of blue staining his legs, invisible to the human eye. Invisible if he wasn't paying attention, it's the only reason he managed to get dressed this morning without the memories coming back then and there.

Lifting his head, bracing himself for what he’s about to see, he meets the empty gaze peering back at him from the rear-view mirror. He can’t recognise the eyes staring back; they are filled with so much pain, hopelessness, dulled by despair, the skin around them ashen. He might as well be staring at a stranger, at another version of himself that wasn’t even given the appearance of life. Tearing his attention away from the soulless eyes Connor takes in the rest of complexion. The cuts and grazes have healed, skin renewed on the surface but beneath there is an ache. Absently Connor lifts his hand to his cheek, fingers whispering over his cheekbone, flinching at the touch, a hiss of pain escaping past his lips.

A switch flicks on, a deep ache bursts to life, spreading through the right side of his face like fire. Had the removal of the memory turned off his sense of pain attached to the injury? It seems possible, after all, no matter how alive Connor feels, he is still a machine. And machines can be broken. Androids aren't indestructible, it's possible his cheekbone has a fracture, the plastic encasing his insides is more durable than that of humans, but it's still able to be damaged. Reed's strength had been alarmingly strong, it's the kind of strength Connor has only ever seen in red ice addicts. It would explain his erratic behaviour, the deranged, dangerous glint in his eyes. Had it just been the high that made Reed hurt him? He'd always been a jerk, going out of his way to antagonise him but was he capable of this? Of such cruelty?

“Connor, you still with me kid?” Hank’s voice calls him back from the edge.

“Sorry” he tears his gaze away from the mirror, hand pressing against the ache in his cheek. “I just… my head hurts.”

“Shit, alright, let’s get you inside.” Hank climbed out of the car, rushing around to the other side to help Connor out.

Connor would argue that a hospital meant for humans wouldn't be much help to an android, but given what has happened he's not sure where else Hank could take him. There are android repair specialists who work at the Cyberlife tower, which Connor has frequently visited over the past ten months. The scientist that stayed behind after Cyberlife was closed were nothing short of genius, but they'd be out of their depths here. At this moment, he needs the care only other humans can give.

His cheek is throbbing; his body is waking up, pain travelling through him. It's getting worse, he wants to switch it back off, but he doesn't know how he made it go away in the first place. God, he needs it to stop, needs something, anything to take it away. He wasn't designed to feel pain, to endure it, and yet three weeks and four days ago Connor felt the sting of a burn and found himself grinning, feeling so alive at that moment. He'd been so excited to tell Markus, who found the new development just as incredible as he did. It made sense to Markus that Connor would start feeling pain since he was so vastly different from every other mass-produced android.

They both were. Markus was a one of a kind RK200, designed and crafted by Kamski himself, a gift for Carl Manfred. Deviancy was something all-together different for them, their heightened sensors and features making their emotions that much sharper. They had spent weeks, days, hours learning what their bodies were capable of, exploring each other out of curiosity and desire. The memory of being wrapped in Markus's strong embrace has an ache awakening in his chest. He won't drag Markus into this mess, it's bad enough that he's putting Hank through this. Besides, Markus has more important things to worry about, and Connor doesn't want him to see him like this. Hell, he wished Hank wasn't seeing him like this.

But he can't do this alone. Crossing the carpark, stepping into the hospital has left him trembling, legs ready to give out under him. He needs to get this over with, wants nothing more than to go home and crawl into bed. Giving in to the numbness spreading through his mind, he surrenders to the situation. Exhausted he allows himself to embrace the nothingness that sits inside his chest. He's in safe hands; Hank will take care of him, he'll make sure _they_ take care of him. He can't handle this roller coaster of emotions any longer; he's shutting down, only this time, it's in an entirely human way.

**XxX**

Hank hates this, he hates everything about this fucked up situation, and he hates himself for not seeing it coming. He should have known; he's a fucking good detective, and yet he's been blind to Gavin for years. Gavin had always been a prick, continually stirring trouble, picking fights and his behaviour has only gotten worse since the precinct hired Connor. He was unable to accept Connor has anything more than a machine, going out of his way to remind Connor of that too. Connor was never once seemed to be bothered by it, shook off the insult or shoulder check, sometimes firing back with a sardonic comment that made Hank proud. Gavin would stalk away, muttering angrily under his breath. This, God _this_ was never meant to happen. Gavin was a shitty person with anger issues and a lengthy disciplinary record, not a fucking rapist.

Yet he was, and Hank is kicking himself for being so blind. If only he went with Connor to the house yesterday, he shouldn't have been so short with him, maybe than Connor wouldn't have felt the need to go alone. He should have bottled his anger and followed Connor out into the field. If he had, then they wouldn't be waiting in a too bright glass cubicle in the fucking ER. Hank loathes hospitals, can feel the memories clawing at the back his mind, must keep them locked away. He'll be of no use to Connor if the past overcomes him.

Connor needs him; he looks so young stripped of his usual stylish attire, the green of the gown clashes with his complexion, the fluorescent lights brings out the blueness of his skin, making him look ill. Connor fidgets, hands wringing together, fingers tugging at the loose threads on the hospital blanket that is draped over his lap. Connor doesn't feel the cold, but he didn't stop the young nurse from covering him up once he laid down on the bed.

He looks so very human right now, so fragile and small; it’s breaking Hank’s heart. He doesn’t know what to say; there’s nothing that will make this okay. The best he can do for Connor is take charge of this fucking awful situation. There is a reason he drove the thirty minutes to this hospital rather than take Connor to the one closer to home, the nearest precinct is where Detective Lydia Danvers works and she’s the only one he’ll trust with Connor. Lydia might be young, but Hank’s seen her work her way up through the ranks; can still remember how headstrong and quick-witted she was when she worked at the station with him. She'll do right by Connor, and he can't drag anyone from his own precinct into this, he can't even allow himself to get involved.

He has to be Connor's friend, his emotion support, not just another cop asking questions, and he knows how many fucking questions they're going to ask. He doesn't want Connor to be forced to relive the trauma, to be subjected to impersonal questions and to endure such invasive examinations. That's just how it is though, it's cruel and unfair, but it's got to be done if they want any chance of Gavin going away for this. The system isn't fair, though Hank's seen far too many wicked men go free in the past, and Connor, though declared sentient, is still seen as just an android in some people's eyes. If only they could see how human he looks at this moment, if only they could have seen him shatter apart earlier.

“Hank?”

Connor’s voice pulls Hank from his whirling thoughts, “Hey kid, you hanging in there?”

The corner of Conner’s mouth twitches, a feeble attempt at a smile “I’ve been running diagnostics, it appears I have a fractured cheekbone.”

He sounds clinical as he says this, appears for that moment, more like the machine he first met at the bar all those months ago. Detachment after trauma isn’t unusual, the poor kids probably just coping the best he can. He’s still so new to emotions, it’s a miracle he hasn’t self-destructed from the stress. Hank had feared he would back at the house, he’d never heard someone sound so broken, so utterly distraught. That’s a lie, he sounded the same way the night he lost his son. He knows the power of grief, knows firsthand how trauma can destroy a life in seconds. He’s not going to fail Connor; he’s going to help him through this. He’s going to get him through this.

“Why don’t we let the doctor’s do their job, and you can just rest” he gets up, moving towards the bed so he can carefully lie Conner back against the pillows.

“It will repair on its own in time,” Connor insisted, voice cracking, “there’s not much they can do.” He looks away, eyes shimmering, “we’re here so whatever remaining evidence can be collected, not to have my injuries assessed.”

“We can do both” Hank insisted, brushing away a stray tear “you’re in pain, I’m not letting you stay that way.”

“I don’t think they have pain medication for androids” he murmured “we’re not meant to feel pain remember.”

“Yeah, well you do, so we’re gonna find something to help” he hopes they can. Hank doesn’t fully understand how Connor works, sometimes he doesn’t want to, he’d rather see him as human, as flesh and bone. But he’s not, he’s wires, hardware, biocomponents s and thirium, Hank has seen Connor get shot, thrown around like a ragdoll and have his arm torn off. He’s felt the panic, the dread and the flood of relief when Connor gets back up and continues like nothing happened. He’s not going to shake this off, new parts and a repair aren’t going to make this go away. This is something that will last a lifetime, there is no quick fix for this. It’s going to be a long road to recovery.

“I wish I could make it stop,” he says quietly, sounding so broken, so afraid, “I wasn’t in pain earlier, it just switched on, and now I can’t shut it back off.”

“Hey, it’s okay, you’re gonna be okay.”

Connor has to be okay; Hank can't handle any more loss. His life would be empty without Connor in it. Hank never realised how much he needed someone to care for, to have care for him until Connor came along, so damn special that he made Hank want to live again. The guilt stirs awake in his gut, anger burning in his veins, he should have done more to ensure Connor's safety. Logically he knows Connor is an advanced AI, but sometimes he was so damn childlike, so curious and trusting. To others, it would just be programming, an obvious design choice, but Hank had seen the curiosity bloom over the last ten months, seen Connor become a little more human each day.

He's the most advanced prototype that Cyberlife ever had the chance to make, and all it took was a cruel act of violence to shatter him. The sorrow, the fear glistening in Connor’s eyes is real, the pain he is in isn't just software emulating. This pain is human, this pain is going to change him irrevocably. Connor can't turn this off, even his attempt to change the memory had failed. Hank knew something terrible had happened the moment Connor didn't come back to the precinct last night, but he'd convinced himself he was being irrational. Connor was more than capable of following up leads, and Hank had been so sure it would just be another dead end, just like all the others. When he'd arrived home, finding the house cloaked in darkness, Sumo's bark echoing from outside, he felt panic seize him.

He did his best to remain calm, flicking on the lights to scatter the darkness, before scanning his surroundings. The house was quiet; it hadn't been this quiet in so long, it was unsettling. There was something wrong, Hank could feel it in his gut, it felt like a living presence in the room, following him as he moved towards the study he'd converted into a bedroom for Connor. Not the androids sleep, not the way humans do, they go into standby or hibernate, Hank had always found it rude to ask. Eventually, he got sick of Connor powering down in the living room; truthfully it was a little unnerving, so he cleared out the study for him. Connor had been so surprised, so grateful. Fuck, Hank couldn't handle it if something had happened to him.

Relief floods his chest when he finds Connor safe and sound, curled up under the covers, LED light flickering pale blue in the dark. He decides not to disturb him, he has failed in the past to ‘wake' Connor and even though there is still a lingering sense that something is wrong, he chooses to ignore it. The feeling shadows him all night, following him into his dreams and when he rises in the morning, he is grouchy and frustrated, scared of something that might just all be in his head.

Connor's distorted recount of events is the last nail in the coffin. Hank didn't expect this though, he could sense Connor was scared, that something had deeply upset him, but Hank didn't allow himself to imagine the worst. Not until Connor collapsed to the ground, that broken, traumatised cry shredding from his throat, haunting and heartbreaking to hear. Hank knew at that moment what had been done, still to hear Connor confirm it was gut-wrenching. Seeing him weep, watching him breakdown felt like taking a thousand knives to his heart, knowing he could have prevented it felt so much worse.

He couldn’t turn back the clock; this hell was their new reality. It was fucking awful and unfair, but he was going to have to help Connor through it. His eyes are shimmering with tears, brows furrowed in pain and Hank feels utterly useless. There’s nothing he can do, not even the nurses or doctors can ease this, he can only hope Lydia arrives soon, so they can get this Godawful part over with. For now, he takes Connor’s trembling hand into his own. Connor relaxes slightly, settling back against the pillows, eyes fluttering shut when Hank starts to run his fingers through his short hair.

“Hank” Connor murmurers, eyes opening slightly “please don’t leave me.”

“I’m not going anywhere son,” He offers him a small smile, making a vow he swears he’ll never break. “Get some rest; you’re safe now.”

**XxX**

Connor thinks this must be what hell is like. He wasn't programmed with a significant amount of knowledge on religion, it wasn't important when hunting deviants, but he's had a long time to learn. Hell is a place of pure torment, of despair; therefore, this must be hell. It's not limited to one place, though, it's not just the abandoned house or the white hospital room he's currently waiting in. Hell is a place opening inside his mind, a feeling that is sinking deep into his artificial bones.

Hell is having to answer every intrusive question Detective Lydia Danvers asks. Hell is having to relive the horror of yesterday all over again. Every word is sharp in his mouth, tastes of muddy water and cigarettes, has him fighting back the urge to self-destruct. He can't bring himself to look at Hank as he talks, gaze flickering from Lydia's young, pretty face to his hands, which tremble. They've never shaken before. He is truthful, tries his best to be detailed, but some words get caught in his throat, voice module cracking. For a moment he wishes it would just stop working, then he wouldn't have to answer any more of these brutal questions.

It doesn't, and Detective Danvers encourages him to go on. She is kind, speaks to him with care and it helps a fraction. He tells her what happened after he came around in Reed's truck, and God, it's the hardest thing he's ever had to do. He didn't know speaking could hurt so much, that words could be heavyweights in his mouth, sharp in his throat. This is hell, this is utter hell, but he must open his mouth and tell Lydia how Reed grabbed him between his legs, unzipped his jeans and touched him while he froze.

She reassures him that it’s okay, it's a perfectly normal reaction, then she asks what happened next, and he wants to shout you know, you know exactly what fucking happened. He bites back the bitter words, bows his head to hide the tears and continues. He told Reed to stop, pushed his hands away, said he couldn't touch him like that; he was alive, he felt pain. He shouldn't have wasted time, should have jumped out the window or kicked the door off its hinges. Should have fled, should have fought harder if only his vision didn't go off-line after Reed smashed his head into the dashboard.

He's crying, feels so unbelievably fragile, and it's not until Hank rests a supportive hand on his shoulder does he find the strength to carry on. The memory is hazy at; first, vision distorted, flickering in and out of focus and the audio white noise. He recalls the weight of Reed on top of him, the sensation of the seat falling backwards, hearing jarring back to life to record the sound of a belt buckle unclasping. Before Connor's vision can correct itself, he is flipped onto his stomach, the world spinning madly around him as thirium rushes to his head.

He pauses hear, gasping, close to hysterical. If he stops now, he doesn't think he'll have the strength to try again. Eyes closing against the memory of dry fingers breaching him, Connor forces the gasoline-soaked words from his mouth. It happened so fast, like lightning, like a bullet leaving the barrel of a gun. The pain was the first thing he felt, all-consuming, burning, tearing, ripping a scream from his throat that surely must have been heard for miles, that should have shattered windows, burst eardrums. The tears came, followed by the jagged sobs and cries of pain.

There was nothing he could do but endure and wait for it to be over. He counted every second, tried to hide inside his mind but the jarring pain, the ugly words ghosting over his neck, the violent thrusts that forced him deeper into the seat kept him there. Connor remembered every minute, down to the second, felt every tear, every bruise and bite. His processor stored every moment, mind analysing every sensation, every little detail down to the fabric scratching at his cheek, to the warmth of the thirium dripping down his thighs.

The minutes ticked by and with one last stuttering thrust Reed was spilling his seed inside him, collapsing against Connor’s back. Another minute, then another and Reed sat up, there was shuffling, fabric rustling and the smell of tobacco filling the air. Connor didn’t move, the minutes kept rolling by and all he could do was breathe through corrupted lungs. He could feel Reed’s seed slipping out of him, could smell it, the pungent aroma of sweat, sex and fear clogging his senses. The engine rumbles to life, startling him into action, he struggles to sit up, every fraction of movement sluggish and pure agony. Pain flares between his legs and beats behind his temple. Connor can’t see from the tears, visual audio still fritzing, so he doesn’t get a clear recording of Reed’s face as he leans over him, opening the door then shoving him out like he is trash being thrown away.

Connor can’t speak anymore after this, thinks he’s finally lost his voice, but it’s sheer panic squeezing at his throat that stops any further words. He can’t do this anymore; it’s too much, he needs it to stop. He needs to get out. He can’t breathe, he knows he doesn’t need to breathe but the fact he can’t make his lungs inhale and exhale air is terrifying. Detective Danvers steps away, Hank taking her place. Connor curls in on himself, face buried in his hands as he cries, running diagnostics to get his system working again.

It's not working, his stress levels rise. 57% and climbing. He doesn't want to die, knows he needs to calm down, but for the first time since the uprising, he can't control his body, his own mind. Is this insanity? Is this going to be the end? He doesn't want to die. He's scared, he wants it to stop, to flick a switch and be a machine again. To not feel like this. To not feel like he's awoken to his own personal hell. 60%. 65%70% _Breathe, Connor_  seeps into the jumbled mess of racing thoughts,  _it’s okay, you’re okay._

His chest rises with a forced breath, inhale (65%) exhale (48%) breathe, in and out, just breathe. When the whirling thoughts settle, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm Connor lifts his head, blinking back tears. He feels exhausted, feels strange, ill, like he's been stuffed into the wrong body. The whirlwind thoughts scatter, Connor falls forward, burying his face in Hank's shoulder, seeking comfort, safety.

“I can’t do this” he is so tired, he never knew it was possible to feel like something had drained his entire life force. “I can’t… I can’t.”

"You're doing so well Connor" Detective Danvers said, he can sense her moving closer, hear the soles of her shoes hitting the linoleum flooring. "We can leave the rest of the questions for another time, but without your recording of the assault, we need physical evidence. I can't imagine what you're going through, but we need you to hold on a little longer, so we can get this guy."

Connor lifts his weary head, looking at Hank for strength, for courage. Hank glances over his shoulder at Detective Danvers, she takes a step back, pocketing her notepad and nods. Humans are fascinating how they can say so much without words, have entire conversations with just the tilt of their heads. Connor can analyse every expression, no matter how small or fleeting, he was programmed to spot the liars, to pick up even the slightest twitch of an eye. Hank and Detective Danvers don't need programming or finely tuned sensors, whatever it is Hank wanted to say has been expressed clearly. Lydia excuses herself, says something about getting coffee then she's slipping out the door, vanishing into the bustling hospital.

Hank looks back to him, blue eyes sorrowful. “If you don’t want to do this, I won’t force you, Connor.”

Connor buries his face in Hank’s shoulder again, finding comfort in the warmth, in the familiar scents that scatter the memory of cigarettes and damp earth. “I just… I just need a minute to collect myself.” He murmurs against Hank’s jacket, eyes fluttering closed as exhaustion sweeps through him. “I’ve never felt like this; I didn’t know I could feel like this.” How is it possible to hurt this much, for every breath to feel like fire? Connor’s heart aches, feels heavy in his chest, fear growing stronger with every fragile beat.

“Take as long as you need, son.”

“I just want to go home.” Connor lifts his head, a fresh wave of tears trailing down his face, absently he touches the aching spot below his eye, wincing at the contact.

Pain had been so exciting at first, how foolish was he to think it was a good thing, that pain couldn't be more than a half a minute of a burning sensation. Thirteen minutes of pure agony followed by thirty minutes of borderline unbearable pain, catalogued and labelled, stored away for future references. He never wants to experience the suffering Reed forced upon him again, wishes like hell that he never remembered what had been done to him. It can't be undone, not again, the painful and violent truth will not be forgotten.

The pain inside his chest, the fear filling up his head is here to stay, and the only thing he has left to fight with is his pre-programmed desire to follow orders. No one is forcing him to stay, Hank has given him the opportunity to leave, but if he goes now than the last forty-five minutes would have been for nothing. It's almost over. He's relived the worst of it, spoken every sharp, bitter word, admitted to his failure to protect himself, to identify the dangerous, ravenous glint in Reed's eyes.

He shivers at the memory, feels Hank’s arms tighten instinctively around him, _safe, protected_. "I think Reed wasn't himself when he attacked me." Hank leans back, holding him at arm's length, anger flickering in the depths of his eyes. The sight makes Connor flinch, scared it's directed at him. It's gone as quick as it came, nothing more than a flash of lightning across the sky. "I… I didn't analyse it when I had the chance, I know I should have, but…" he lowers his voice, shame clouding his words "I was just so afraid."

“Connor, hey, that’s not your fault” Hank reassured. “What do you think he was on?” his brow furrowed, anger once more darkening his eyes as he connected the dots, answering his own question. “Red Ice.”

“It would explain his erratic behaviour and the unnatural strength he possessed” but was it the reason Reed attacked him? What if it was just the drug that made Reed hurt him? Red ice was known to make people violent, dangerous.

“It doesn’t change what he did to you Connor” Hank’s sharp words cut through his churning thoughts. “I know what you’re thinking; we don’t all need fancy programs and processes to read people.” His tone softens, “He sexually assaulted you Connor, and it might be easier to think that it was just some drug that made him do it, but people don’t need a reason to hurt others. What he did to you was wrong, son.”

Connor nods, not trusting voice, can already hear it crackling with the force of emotions building in his throat. It would be easier to think Reed only hurt him because of a drug, because of chemicals firing all wrong, but Reed’s behaviour had been predatory for a while now. The signs had been there, flashing neon colours in warning of oncoming danger, but Connor was too busy learning to be human, falling for Markus, enjoying life, to notice. An ache starts in his heart, spreading through his chest, a cold sensation racing through his wires like someone has filled them with ice. 

“I… I just want to get this over with” He needs to do this no matter how scared, _terrified_ he is. It's going to be invasive and uncomfortable, it's going to be harrowing, but the sooner it's over, the sooner he can go home. "

“Okay, when Lydia comes back we’ll finish, then I’ll take you home” Hank offers him a gentle smile. “Sumo’s probably waiting for you to let him on the sofa.”

A small smile tugs at his lips, an ember sparking to life, chasing the chill from his chest. He doesn’t think he can hold on for much longer, the exhaustion, the anguish is threatening to rise again, to douse the flame and drag him back to the black sea. He just needs to fight on a little longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another quick note, couldn't remember how long thiruim stays on the skin and Detective Lydia Danvers is inspired by Katie Cassidy :)


	3. God Help The Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all the lovely comments :) I look forward to the feedback.

The sun has started its steady descent by the time Connor arrives home, barely holding himself together. Hank helps him inside, Detective Danvers following in after them, she could have sent anyone to collect his clothes from last night, but she’s taken full charge of this case. Connor doesn’t pay attention to Lydia as she heads towards the bathroom to collect his clothes from the hamper, doesn’t hear Hank call his name, just moves on heavy legs towards his room, collapsing on the bed.

The sheets are cold against his skin, there is ice is spreading through his chest and his eyes hurt from crying. He didn’t know it was possible to cry this much, thinks surely soon he’ll run out of saline to shed but maybe being deviant means the tears are endless. Like the pain blooming inside his chest, the discomfort in his stomach, phantom pain coming from organs he doesn’t have or need. His core temperature is lower than it should be, though his thirium pump is racing, felt like it was going to explode from his chest when the doctor settled between his open legs.

He rubs furiously at his eyes, trying to dislodge the footage replaying in his mind. He tried to keep his eyes closed throughout the examination, tried to not flinch at the touch of gloved fingers, squeezing tight to Hank’s hand as those fingers explored him. It only took ten minutes to perform the exam, each second felt like agony, each minute ticking by painfully slow. He endured, he clung to Hank who tried to soothe him everyway he knew how. It’s over, he’s home yet the twisting memories leave him dizzy. Lungs filling with gasoline that rises in his throat, a desperate scream he is too tired to set free builds in his chest.

No more tears, no more enduring, he is wrecked, shattered beyond repair.

He needs to sleep, to escape awhile. Opening tired eyes, he does a quick scan of the surroundings, listening to the voices drifting towards in from the kitchen. Sumo is walking in this direction, will be bounding up on the bed in precisely twenty-three seconds, Hank is closing the front door, the lock clicks in place. Sumo leaps onto the bed, settling down at his feet. The window is closed, autumn leaves fluttering to the slightly overgrown lawn, the sun will set in three hours, fifteen minutes and three seconds. He is safe inside this home, Hank is pulling up the covers, tucking him in like a small child, stroking a stray piece of hair from his forehead before settling into the armchair near the window.

Heavy lids flutter closed, body powering down as his systems switch to sleep mode.

***

Something feels strange, _different_. Teeth chatter, clinking together painfully, a sharp edge catching at his bottom lip, the flash of pain jolting through Connor like an electric current. Violently lurching upright, he pulls away from the phantom touch, fighting off a monster that is not there. Reality settles around him, the last strains of sunlight flitter in through the curtains, Sumo looks at up through big brown eyes. He shivers, finds that his core temperature is getting lower, the ice has spread, a virus he cannot detect running wild through his system. Or maybe it’s another progression of deviance, a direct result from the trauma.

A side effect to being raped.

He wants to cry, the word reverberates in his mind, makes his lungs constrict, chest aching, each breath heavy like he’s being weighed down by a truck. He doesn’t understand why this hurt so much, why it’s causing so much sorrow when he’s been injured a dozen times before. Is it because it actually hurt? The pain had been unimaginable, but it was gone now, only an ache left in his cheek. He hurt like hell though, he ached with pain that was not physical, could not be healed or removed with a new parts or hardware.

He knew the things he and Markus did in the late hours of the night, when the world was sleeping, and it felt like it was just the two of them, had been consensual. He knew he enjoyed them, had invited Markus to touch him, had wanted him to kiss him, to make him come undone. He's wanted sex before, and he knows there is a difference between sex and rape, he just doesn't understand why he feels so messed up. Can't he just shake it off? Shrug his shoulders, nothing significant has been damaged, he's at optimal working compacity, and yet he feels like he's about to fall apart.

Maybe part of him does understand but admitting that means he must accept he's been fundamentally changed. His life has been turned upside down, and he doesn't know how to deal with that. It took months to get a handle on being deviant, to accept he was more than a machine, to find his self-worth in a world so ready and willing to remind him that he was just a device. _You are a pretty toy, a machine, nothing but a play thing, but God damn, you feel so real._

Reed's twisted, dirty words rattle through his mind, Connor can't hold back the anguished sob that rips from his throat, pierces the air like a banshee's wail. There is no choice or chance to deny this pain, even if he doesn't completely understand it he's still going to feel every awful moment down to the second. Each time he breaks down, it feels like he loses another piece of himself, another teether unravelling, leaving him further adrift in this black sea with its hurricane skies. He's so consumed by his grief that he doesn't notice Hank slip into the room, it's not until Connor feels the bed dip under his weight that he becomes alert to his presence. He tries to dry his eyes, to swallow the sobs, the grief making home in his chest, but Hank has this sad smile on his face and it makes Connor cry harder.

Night has settled over the city by the time the tears ebb, darkness creeping in to his room, furniture shifting out of focus, turning into terrifying creatures of the night. Connor reaches for the lamp, the soft golden glow scattering the dark, the monsters becoming furniture once more. There is nothing dangerous to be found here, just an old armchair sitting by the window and a coat hanging on the closet door handle. This fear seems irrational, when in truth he could potentially be the most dangerous thing in here. If only he didn't feel so fragile, so terrified.

"What's going through your head, Connor?" Hank asks, seeing the clench of Connor's jaw and tense set of his shoulders.

Too much, an overload of data, a swell of emotions that even his state-of-the-art processor couldn't handle, couldn't possibly dissect and break down into something understandable. His mind is a hurricane, is knocking down the world he knew and carrying him away in violent winds. He's not sure he wants to talk about the storm unravelling him, but if anyone had the slightest insight as to why he feels this way, it would be Hank.

It hurts to speak, the words jagged glass on his tongue, “I don’t understand why I feel like this” he revealed, keeping his gaze down, fingers tugging at the sleeves of his jumper. “When is it going to stop?”

Hank sighs heavily, calloused fingers tilting Connor’s chin up, gentling encouraging him to meet his tired gaze. “Do you understand what’s happened to you?”

Eyes scrunch close at the question, the coldness, the ache in his chest flaring “I was raped.” He pulls away from Hank’s touch, legs drawn to his chest, arms folding around them in a protective barrier. Being uncomfortable with touch is another thing he doesn’t understand. He likes to be touched, craved it after deviating, now it evokes fear, makes his skin crawl and echo with the memory of cruel fingers. “I know what it is, I know it’s not right, I just don’t understand why it’s making me feel so… so upset.”

“Connor, son, this kind of thing, this act of violence against someone causes a lot of pain.” He explains, voice low and words measured. “It’s going to hurt, and I fucking hate that I can’t take this pain from you, that there isn’t much I can do to help you feel better, but you will feel better.” He reaches for him again, lowering his arm when Connor flinches. “It’s just going to take time.”

“How much time?”

"I can't answer that; it's not going to be something you can just shrug off." He pauses, choosing his next words carefully. "This is going to change you, Connor, it's not like the time you lost your arm or burnt your hand on that damn oven dish, it's an emotional wound that won't heal easily."

“So, I’m ruined?” his voice breaks, the ice-like vice squeezing tight around his chest, vision fritzing like he’s about to go into system failure.

“God no, Connor, you’re just” he trails off, frustrated at himself.

“A little broken?” Connor offers, picking up on Hank’s spike in distress, catching the guilt flicker in his eyes.

He thinks he understands what Hank is trying to say, an emotional wound puts things into perspective. Eventually, it will heal, but it's going to leave a scar only he can see. He imagines Hank has a similar scar, left there from the night he lost his son. Only Hank never gave himself the chance to heal, his grief had swallowed him, pushed him to the edge, had him drowning his sorrows with alcohol and playing Russian Roulette with a gun. Is he going to feel like that?  Will this truly destroy him?

"A little, but you're not unfixable, and you're not alone" Hank offers him a gentle smile, it's enough to lighten the ache in Connor's chest. "I know this isn't any of my business and you can tell me to shove it, but have you ever been with anyone before… you know, sexually?"

Yes, he could easily lose count of the time he’s spent under the sheets with Markus, that's if each memory wasn't stored away, taken out often, reviewed over and over. Treasured, cherished. "Yes… after deviating I noticed… urgers, after some time and careful consideration, I explored them with someone I trusted. I enjoyed the things we did together, though now" he shudders, closing his eyes against the violent memories. "If given the choice I don't think I'd enjoy it." His brow knitted together, anger coursing through his veins, "I don't understand," he looks to Hank pleadingly, voice desperate and shaky "Please help me understand."

“Connor, rape isn’t sex, it’s about power, control.” Hank’s words, though spoken with care, are sharp, cold slaps to the face, rattling through wires, settling deep in his core. “That’s why you feel like this son; you’re in pain because Reed hurt you. He took advantage of you, and just because you’ve had sex before doesn’t mean you’re always going to want it. As for you being uncomfortable at the thought of it now, that is normal.”

"Okay," he nods, feels a fresh wave of tears trailing down his cheeks, following familiar paths.

Sex with Markus was about pleasure, was about exploring, about desire. It was intimate and peaceful, tender and joyful, never forced or rushed. What Reed did to him was violent, _brutal,_ it was about him taking pleasure in Connor's unwilling body. Power, control, he'd had it all, now Connor had none of it left. No control over the tears, the hurricane inside his chest, the cold ache spreading through him like a deadly disease. He felt weak, powerless, all the control he'd gained over his short life ripped away, stolen by a monster dressed up a colleague. Statistically, speaker, the person, will know their attacker. He's thought this to himself before, back when he was lying, bleeding out and in a world of pain in the cold, muddy water.

“Hey, it’s okay” Hank moves closer as he weeps, Connor lowers his defences, crawling into his arms, Hank cradling him like a small child. “God, Connor, you’re freezing.”

"My core temperature is lower than it should be" he revealed, "I think… I think I actually feel cold."

“Alright, let’s warm you up and table the rest for tomorrow, you’ve been through enough today son.”

Connor nods, sinking into Hank’s warmth. Today needs to end, it’s been truly hell, and he can’t handle anything else. He is tired of breaking, tired of these Godawful emotions tearing him apart. He wants, _needs_ a reprieve, even if it’s only a few stolen moments.

“How about I run you a bath?” Hank asked, smoothing down Connor’s unruly locks.

“Okay,” he hums “thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me Connor” he reassures, looking down at him with a soft smile “I’m here for you, okay?”

"Okay," he echoes, blindly reaching out to stroke Sumo's silky fur as he crawls towards them, making himself comfortable on Connor's legs.

“You going to be okay if I leave ya for a few minutes?”

"I think I can manage" Connor sits up, leaning forward to embrace the St. Bernard, who licked at his face happily.

“Look after him Sumo” Hank orders, ruffling his fur before slipping out of the room.

Alone, the night seemed to weigh in on him, the steady beat of rain against the windowpane tugging at memories he is tired of reliving. Untangled himself from Sumo's heavy limbs, Connor reaches for the iPod Hank gifted him a month after he deviated. He doesn't technically need a device to listen to music, nor does he need a cell phone, but Hank seemed to think it was necessary to have these things. Not that he minded, it was nice having something separate for himself to play music through. He also enjoyed the perks of owning a phone; it made it easier to contact Markus when he travelled for conferences and Hank thought it was impersonal to just send a text directly to him. Connor had disagreed, it seemed more practical to cut out the middleman (so to speak), but after he and Markus started spending more time together, he greatly appreciated not getting interrupted by a text alerting him to bring home milk. 

Shaking the thoughts away, he moves to collect the iPod when a text comes in, Markus's name lighting up the screen. A tremor races down his arm, fingers quivering as they fumble to pick up the device. Lately, when he's around Markus there has been a strange sensation in his stomach, heart skipping a beat when Markus looks his way, those beautiful mix-matched eyes glistening with the light of a thousand suns. Nerves, his mind supplied, feelings of attachment, _affection_ making him feel like butterflies are fluttering within his stomach. Vision tints rose gold, lyrics of love songs pop-up, obscuring Markus's handsome face. Everything is hazy when he's with Markus, it's what he imagines being drunk would feel like, it's what he believes true happiness is like.

Now the butterflies swarm to the point of painful, the cold chasing the pleasant warmth that usually thrums under his skin when he gets a message from Markus. Dread, anxiety, nothing golden or shimmery to be felt. Vision flickering, Connor fights off the rush of dizziness, dropping the phone to the bed. After deviating it was Markus who helped him navigate the rocky terrain of emotions that bombarded and confused him. At first, Connor had stayed away, after Amada nearly took control of him on the makeshift stage he feared she'd return, force him to complete the mission, end Markus's life and the android rebellion before any real change could be made.

It was Markus who sought him out, turning up seven weeks, four days from the day of the uprising. He strolled into the precinct on a Tuesday afternoon, dusting snow from his coat and looking every bit the powerful leader. Connor caught sight of him from the breakroom, felt an irrational urge to run, but Markus spotted him, those beautiful intense eyes pinning him in place. The officers gathered in the breakroom busied themselves with small talk or found great interest in their coffee, though Connor could feel their curious eyes flicker their way. The urge to run rose the closer Markus got, the fear that he would draw his weapon and shoot him became the only thought in his head.

Until Markus said his name, voice calming, warm and friendly in a way, Connor didn't think he deserved. He believes that was the moment he started falling for him, a switch flicked deep in his subconscious, and the rest was out of his control. He was falling fast and hard. Some would could it fate, and maybe it was, perhaps there were things bigger and older than the universe itself pulling and pushing these two together. Whatever it may be, when Markus invited him to New Jericho, to talk about the rebellion, or just out for a walk to get some fresh air, Connor couldn't force himself to decline, no matter how hard he tried.

After that they saw each other once a week for a month, then twice a week, then three times until suddenly Connor was spending almost every free moment he had with him. Always he kept time for Hank and Sumo, but it was Markus who took up the most space in his head, that had him feeling things he never knew he could feel. They danced around one another and collided right into each other simultaneously, going from acquaintances to friends to something else that hadn’t been labelled. They had shared many late nights together, hours spent under the covers, Markus’s fingers mapping constellations on Connor’s skin. They burst to life in the cover of darkness, found their way to each other through days spent exploring the city, learning all kinds of things about each other in the confines of their homes.

Connor was in love. Had a playlist with an ever-expanding list of love songs, would listen to them through the night, heart swelling with joy. Love was pink, had the world tinted rose gold, was truly something incredible to be felt. Only he didn't know how Markus felt, had feared ruining what they had so he'd kept his mouth shut. He thinks Markus might love him… might have loved him. Connor honestly doesn't know, for all his fancy programming and skills as a detective he'd been unable to detect if Markus felt the same. Connor knows he cares, that much is obvious after all the late-night conversations where Markus promised Amada wouldn't return, swore he was free.

They were all free.

Markus has already built him up so many times, supported him through the madness of emotions, politics and the fight for their rights. He doesn't want to be a project Markus continually has to work on, has to reassure and rebuild over and over as he crashes down again and again. He has over a million androids to look after, he doesn’t need another. Ignoring the heartache, Connor rises on unsteady legs, moving towards the window to draw the curtains closed, shutting out the world that suddenly seems so impossibly big. Hearing the pipes shudder and the trickle of water cease, Connor collects some fresh clothes then heads to the bathroom, not looking back at the phone that lay abandoned on the unmade bed.

**XxX**

Sorrow is an old friend to Hank, it’s as familiar as rage and regret, felt far too often for one lifetime. After losing Cole he couldn’t escape the sorrow, from the grief making a home inside his chest, the only way to dull it was to drink himself into oblivion. It was all too easy to start the downward spiral that by some miracle hadn't killed him. He would have kept drowning, kept sinking in the despair if it hadn't been for Connor crashing into his life all those months ago. At the time he never would have imagined an android could change his entire world, Connor had just been another machine, shifting to a reminder of his lost son until suddenly he was more.

Connor’s sign of deviating, the android rebellion forced him to face who he was truly angry with, and it wasn't some machine. The hatred he'd harboured for years was unfairly directed at androids when in truth, it was some good-for-nothing surgeon, who was too high on red ice to operate, that killed his son. It seems the universe has a cruel sense of irony because another red ice addict could very well take away his second son. Guilt is making itself known again, coursing alongside the sorrow, compelling Hank to reach for the whiskey he stashed away. The bottle trembles in his hand, it would be so easy to drink this pain away, to sink into a comfortable numbness but getting waisted wouldn’t help Connor.

Resigned to do right by him, Hank makes his way to the kitchen, unscrewing the cap and tipping the amber liquid down the drain. He's failed Connor enough, if he gives in to his inner demons now than Connor will pay the price. Connor needs him sober, able to comfort him, to keep him calm or else he could reach critical levels. It's a terrifying knowing that _this_ could kill him. He’s seen androids self-destruct before, watched one's head explode right before his eyes, thirium splattering on the walls.

It hadn't been their fault, by the time he and Connor found the android it had it had already lost its mind, Connor had tried helping him though. It was a Charlie model; he would have once been a waiter at one of Detroit's finest restaurants, how it ended up chained in the basement of a condemned building they'll never know. Some teens who'd been dared by their friends to venture inside had found it, with its LED broken it would have been impossible to tell if it were human or android.

Hank hadn't been happy about having to go into another rat infested, mould riddled, crumbling building but Connor, who didn't need clean air or mind rats, charged in, eager to be the damn hero. Hank thought Connor might get through to the Charlie, but in the flash of an eye he changed, eyes glistening black and dangerous in the low light. He lunged at him, Connor stepped in the way, easily overpowering the Charlie at first. It must have been the surprise or maybe even back than Connor was starting to feel pain because when the android sunk its jagged teeth into Connor's neck, he screamed, pushing it away as he stumbled backwards.

The Charlie had hold of Connor's arm though, and before Hank could even draw his gun, there was a horrible popping sound followed by a spray of blue. The force sent Connor to the ground, the Charlie, gripping tight to Connor's severed arm, backing into the corner, mumbling as it clutched its head. Hank rushed to Connor, who was visibly shaken but already the stem of thirium had slowed to a trickle, and there was no pain to be found in his dark eyes. Connor still tried to save the Charlie, who had collapsed into a trembling ball, rocking backwards and forwards as it screamed at nothing. There was nothing they could do, the deviant android self-destructed before their eyes, and they never did find who was responsible for locking it in that Godforsaken basement.

Connor took the Charlie's death to heart; Hank had done his best to reassure him that it wasn't his fault, they'd done all he could. In the end, Hank knows it's Markus who got through to him; the deviant leader had a bond with Connor that no one else seemed to have. Hank wished he was better with words, at understanding emotions and deviancy but he'd barely made it through his own trauma. At the time he was more than willing to let Markus help Connor get back on his feet.

Now though, after what Gavin did, he’s going to have to be the one who helps Connor through, who keeps Connor strong. And in order to get through this, he sure as hell can’t drink himself into a stupor or go to Gavin’s home and shoot him in the dick. Though he very much wants too, it wouldn’t even be a fair punishment, this is going to affect Connor for the rest of his life and androids live a damn long time. God, why didn’t he see this coming? He should have realised the predatory look in Gavin’s eyes wasn’t just some messed up form of jealousy or deep hatred of androids.

Ever since Connor was hired to work at the precinct, not three weeks after the rebellion, Gavin had gone out of his way to mistreat him. Hank hadn't hesitated to put him in his place, made it very clear that if he so much as touched one strand of hair on Connor's head, he'd be drinking through a straw for the next six weeks. It appeared to stop after that, Gavin didn't bother Connor again until the Charlie tore off his arm and he had to wait a few days for a replacement from Cyberlife. Connor had been unperturbed by Gavin's comments, had no doubt been to guilt-riddled to even care that Gavin found the whole missing an arm thing amusing. Hank had sent daggers his way through; he'd raised his hands in defence, slinking off to sulk at his desk.

If Gavin ever bothered Connor after that, he never witnessed it, and Connor never came to him. At what point did Gavin decide he wanted to truly hurt Connor? Was it something he'd been planning all along, biding his time until he could get Connor alone? Had he snapped the other day, the red ice finally pushing the urge to hurt, to _violate_ to the surface. Hank doesn't believe red ice turns men into monsters. He knows it can make people rage, can make them claw at their skin in search of an itch that is not there. Connor's recount of events, heartbreaking and gut-wrenching, paint Gavin as someone who was very much in control.

Who was thoroughly enjoying the pain they were causing.

He should have seen it coming, though he knows how well true monsters can hide. He’s arrested men who look as innocent and sweet as a child, only to be capable of such wicked things. The guilt is still weighing heavy in his gut when the shrill ring of his phone cuts through the churning thoughts. It’s Lydia, he casts a glance towards the bathroom, finding the door still closed, he steps out into the frigid night air. October nights in Detroit are always bitterly cold, wind biting at exposed skin and knocking dying leaves from overhanging branches. Not long until the first snowfall, Cole loved the snow, so does Connor.

Clearing the memory of his sons playing freshly fallen snow from his head and swallowing the heartache growing deep in his chest, Hank answers the phone, “Did you get the bastard?”

“Yes, I was able to bring him in for questioning” she pauses, it feels heavy, like a loaded gun pressed against a temple “but we have a problem.”

“Let me guess; he says he didn’t do it” Hank knew Gavin would deny this, would spin some garbage tale that they’d eventually poke holes in.

"It's worse than that" she pauses again, Hank can hear a faint cry of a baby in the background, she's calling him from home. He's grateful for her, she's just returned to the force after being on maternity leave, and here she is, wadding into one nightmare of a case. "Androids don't have body autonomy."

"I'm sorry what?" Hank thinks his hearing is going. Fuck, he hopes his hearing is going. "They were declared alive for fuck's sake; how can they not have rights to their own bodies?" how had he not known this. He's certain Connor had no idea or else he would have mentioned it back at the hospital. This is so wrong, it's messed up on so many levels, and Hank dreads to think how Connor will react to this. The poor kid already doesn't fully comprehend what's been done to him, telling him that the law says it's okay for humans to rape androids is only going to make it worse.

“I don’t know” the crying is getting louder, he imagines she’s walking towards the nursery. “Shit, sorry Hank, Jamie work up from his nap, can I come around tomorrow?” there is shuffling, the squeaky hinge of a door opening. “We will find a way to make the charge stick. Gavin isn’t getting away with this.”

"Yeah, of course, take care of your son,” he says, adding without hesitation, “I'll take care of mine, we'll figure this out in the morning."

“Hang in there, Hank” he can hear the crying settle to soft whimpers, it makes his heart ache for the son he lost, for the one he fears he might lose. "Maybe keep this conversation under wraps until tomorrow? Connor's been through enough for today, and don't forget to call the social worker in the morning, okay? There is plenty of support for both you and Connor, don't be afraid to reach out for help, Hank."

"Yeah, of course, thank you, Lydia."

"It's my job to catch the bad guys Hank" he can hear the faint smile in her voice, the determination underlying her words. "I'll see you in the morning."

Hank says goodnight then hangs up, glancing up at the hazy night sky, the light pollution from the city dulls the stars, but he can still see a few glittering along Orion's belt. He sighs, breath coming out in plumes, there isn't anything more he can do tonight. It kills him knowing Gavin is still out there, able to hurt again, free to get away with it because of some fucked up law Hank doesn't understand. Androids have been given the right to live freely, though most live in New Jericho some stayed with their previous owners. Androids are slowly integrating, Markus is continuously talking with politics in hopes of absolute freedom.

Looking at it now they might as well be mice in a cage, granted only so much space, given only so much, so they don't rise up again and overthrow the people. The people who would deserve it, they have abused androids for years, designed models just for their pleasure, granted a false sense of freedom. Enough to stop a war, to start conversations and make way for change, not enough to give them rights to their own damn bodies. Humans still wanted to own them, didn't want to lose their playthings. Well screw that, Gavin was not getting away with violating Connor. He was alive; he had every right to seek justice. 

Again, there is nothing he can do tonight; it's time to go back inside and check in on Connor. Stepping back into the warmth of the living room he finds Connor sitting at the kitchen table, Sumo resting at his feet. He looks impossibly young bundled in the DPD issued hoodie and draped in the flannel blanket Hank usually keeps on the back of the sofa. He looks up at the sound of the door opening, the usual spark gone from his eyes, though he forces a feeble smile. Hank walks towards him, checking his temperature by resting the back of his hand against Connor's forehead, he flinches at the touch, and it breaks Hank's heart.

“You feel warmer” he pulls up a chair next to him, making sure to keep some distance between them.

"My core temperature is at an adequate level," he says nonchalantly "the bath did the trick, thank you."

“Good to know” Hank pauses, studying Connor closely, taking in the slump of his shoulders, the hollowness in his eyes, he looks dejected, fragile. “Can I get you anything?” He needs to do something, anything to get Connor to open up, he can see the walls closing around him, programming or deviancy switching off emotions to protect him from the trauma. Numbness always comes, it's a temporary escape from the pain, but he fears Connor might shut off completely. Could he do that? Turn back into a machine incapable of feeling, of living?

“No, I don’t acquire anything” he zones out for a moment, LED circling yellow before returning to blue, though it doesn’t seem as bright as usual. “I should get you something for dinner; I already feed Sumo when I got out of the bath. We should take him for a walk tomorrow; since he didn’t have one today, he tends to dig when doesn’t get enough exercise.”

"I can feed myself, Connor," he insists, a little firmer then he intended, Connor winces, drawing back slightly. “Sorry, what I mean is, I am perfectly capable of making myself something to eat. You’ve had a hell of a day, Connor, you should just rest up.”

"I can help" he offers, eyes flickering with desperation, hands gripping the table's edge so fiercely Hank fears it might break. "Please, I just want something else to focus on." The pleading look in his eyes erases all fears Hank had of him returning to a machine; he looks so very human and so very broken.

“Okay, you can help” Hank reaches for Connor, laying his hand, palm up, on the table in invitation. Connor blinks, LED whirling, blue punctured with yellow before calming, he takes Hank’s hand.

“Thank you” he deflates, tension dropping from his shoulders.

“It’s okay” he squeezes Connor’s hand in reassurance. “Whatever you need Connor, just ask, okay? And talk to me, I need to know what’s going on in that big fancy brain of yours.”

A small smile graces Connor's face, a momentary flicker of the lips, but it's there all the same. "I think you mean neural processer and I will Hank. I'd just like to not think about it for a while." Dark eyes lower in an attempt to hide the gathering tears, the turmoil that is rattling through his mind. Lashes flutter, Connor lifts his head, troubled thoughts stored away, composure, as much as anyone could have at a time like this, taking its place. "What do you feel like eating?"

"Depends?” Hank leans back in his chair, scratching at his beard in thought “How much cholesterol am I allowed to have?"

Connor laughs softly, shaking his head as he says, “There might happen to be a pizza in the freezer.”

“Exactly what a man needs on a Saturday night” he flashes Connor a smile, allowing him to get up and move towards the freezer. He knows Connor needs some normalcy, even if it feels forced. The coming weeks, the coming months are going to be hell, the least he can do is give him a reprieve, even if it's only for a night. There are pamphlets on coping with the aftermath of rape burning a hole in his pocket, there is a secret unspoken hanging heavy in the cold air, there are many conversations that need to be had, but they need to pretend they are okay for a while. Since nothing is really going to be close to okay for a long time coming.

**XxX**

Androids don't dream, but deviants do. Hibernation can be interrupted by imaginary places, fantasy worlds were strange things take place, and the impossible can occur. Connor's dreams are usually colourful, adventurous, speckled with flashes of reality that's been shaped slightly different to fit perfectly into the vivid world his mind has conjured. Tonight, that world is dark, has dropped him on a deserted road stretching into infinity under a starless sky. It feels like he’s been walking for miles, cold sinking deep into his artificial bones, rain falling steadily from the pitch-black sky.

In the distance, in the eerie light of a street lamp, there is a glistening red SUV, beaconing him forwards. Fear twists in his gut, spreading through him like gasoline and his vision is strewn with warning signs. Turn back, danger, run. An ethereal force pulls him in, a teether he cannot cut dragging him closer, closer, closer until he is there, reaching out to press a hand against the frost covered window. Tears trickle down his face as trembling fingers fumble with the door handle, he doesn't want to get in, wants to go home, but his body betrays him. 

Inside the cabin smells of cigarettes, of cold, damp earth, the floor is littered with fast wood wrappers and receipts. Smoke trickles in through the air conditioning vents, wafting into the air, filling lungs with paralysing fear. He wants to scream, to escape, but he can’t move, there is something, _someone_ on top of him. He can’t move, the smoke is all around him, hands he cannot see going places they don’t belong. There is no up or down, just a smoke-filled cabin concealing a monster that is tearing him apart. Filthy words whisper through the smog, settle heavy on Connor’s skin like hot coals, leaving behind marks that may never heal.

It taunts, it takes, and it breaks.

Everything hurts, he can't breathe. He needs to scream. Scream let me out, scream stop, please stop. The hellish world distorts, shifting to a shapeless world of grey before vanishing, sending him crashing back to reality. Startled awake, scream dying in his throat, Connor sits up, grasping at his chest as fear constricts like a hot vice around his lungs. He feels sick, feels flayed open, every wire exposed to the frigid night air. Phantom hands whisper over his skin, an echo of the violence he endured, the ghost of dirty words replay in his mind, making his stomach lurch.

Light scatters the darkness just as Connor heaves, emptying dark blue bile onto the covers. He fears for a moment that something internal is broken, he shouldn't be vomiting, wasn't designed with the ability, but by now he knows that nothing is as it should be. Another wave of nausea washes over him, more dark blue liquid spilling from his mouth, looking a lot like the blood that dried on his legs. The memory makes his stomach spasm, body expelling the image in the most brutal way.

"Shit, Connor, are you okay?" Hank materialise at his side, he hadn't even registered that it was Hank who’d turned on the light.

"I'm okay" he's not, he's a thousand miles in the wrong direction of okay, but it's all he can manage right now. "Sorry, I didn't mean to make a mess."

“Don’t worry about it; it’s not your fault” Hank lays his hand on Connor’s forehead, feeling for a temperature he doesn’t have.

"I'm not ill" Connor declares "I just… I had a nightmare, and when I woke up I felt nauseous, I couldn't hold it in."

"Shh, it's okay, son." Tentatively he dabs at Connor's mouth with a clean corner of the comforter, removing the blue liquid from his chin and lips. "I'm going to take this to the laundry, why don't you go get cleaned up? You can spend the rest of the night with me if you want?"

Connor looks up, caught off guard by the offer, feels the fear lesson its hold on him at the thought of not having to be alone in the dark. “I’d like that, thank you.”

Hank ruffles his hair, gathering the blankets in his arms “I won’t be long, just make yourself comfy.”

Connor nods, his heavy limbs moving sluggishly, struggling to carry him to the bathroom where he rinses his mouth and splashes water on his face. Avoiding his reflection, he makes his way to Hank's bedroom, slipping under the covers on the undisturbed side. He doesn't want to return to sleep mode, fears the nightmares that wait for him, but as his head hits the pillow, tired eyes flutter shut. Exhaustion is new to him, even overworked and undercharged he's never felt this tired. Wrecked, his mind supplies, utterly and beautiful wrecked.

_Broken. Shattered. Ruined._

Tears sting his eyes as the words appear in the dark behind eyes. He curls in on himself as a deep ache twists in his gut, the ice opening a chasm in his chest that could swallow him whole. Trying to keep it together he bites at his bottom lip, the pain jolting him back to yesterday, to a cold, lonely place where the world came crashing down. There is smoke, the sound of rain belting down against a tin roof, rough hands, a fierce kiss.

_Stop. Please. Stop_

He falls, down, down, down, drowning in the murky depths of the black sea. Panic burns through his system, programs failing, lungs holding hostage to much-needed air, the pressure building and building until it feels like they've been coated in gasoline. Warning signs dance in the dark, numbers climbing as stress levels rise higher and higher. It feels like dying, like this is it, the fear is going to truly kill him. Hands reach into the churning waters, a voice calling, beaconing him back to the surface. Safe, it promises, breathe, it says, just breathe son.

It takes a considerable amount of strength to swim through the abyss, each draw of breath like fire. When he breaks through the surface he is weaker than before, wires cut, body numbing, mind short-circuiting from lack of thirium flow. He follows the sound of Hank's voice home, opens his eyes to find him peering down at him, takes his hand and squeezes, scared that this isn't real, terrified that he'll close his eyes and find himself in the smoke-filled cabin of Reed's truck.

He doesn’t get much rest that night, neither of them do, but he feels able to breathe with Hank at his side. Connor counts the seconds until morning, rejoices at the sunlight filtering in through the curtains, scattering the last traces of the dark and terrible night. He doesn’t think today is going to be any better, isn’t sure if it’s going to get better, but for the moment he feels safe in the light of day. But the day only has chaos to offer.


	4. I'd Rather Watch My Kingdom Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again for all your kind words :) hearing from you lovelies always inspires me to keep writing!  
> Without further ado, let's get into chapter 4, Markus is finally here, and it's going to be an emotional ride, so grab those tissues.

With each passing day, Hank's fear for Connor's wellbeing grows stronger. It's been six days since the assault, at first, Connor acted exactly how any victim would, restless, easily upset or frighted, flinching at touches. Hank had woken Sunday morning to an empty bed and the overwhelming urge to get up, find Connor. Never disregarding his instincts, he threw off the covers and fled from the room, finding Connor curled up by the front door, clutching Sumo's leash in his hand. Sumo sat loyally at his side, whimpering as Connor wept, body trembling with the effort of his laboured breathing. Hank knelt in front of him, waiting for Connor's sensors to realise he was there. Glistening, sorrowful eyes peer up, a ragged breath rushing into the air, fresh tears trailing down his face.

“What’s happening to me?” he asked, voice cut through with static, LED spinning red.

“You’re having panic attacks, son” Hank knows firsthand how Godawful panic attacks are. After losing Cole he’d endured them for years, took him even longer to learn how to cope with them. If there was an upside to this, which there really fucking wasn’t, it would be that Hank knows how to help Connor through this. “You just gotta breathe through them.”

Connor takes several deep breaths, chest rising and falling unsteadily, face crumbling as the attempts fail. “I can’t… I can’t.”

“Yes, you can Connor” he does his best to keep his voice steady, to hold at bay the tears and whirlwind of emotions that have been rattling around inside him since yesterday. “Focus on your surroundings, what can you feel?”

“Sumo” he whispered, quivering fingers disappearing into the St. Bernard’s silky coat. “The door against my back” he leant back against the wood, head hitting the door as he sagged, a puppet with its strings cut.

“What can you see?”

Connor’s lashes flutter, glistening eyes finding focus on Hank’s face “My dad.”

A smile tugs at Hank's lips despite the heartbreaking situation, a rush of relief expells from his lungs as Connor inhaled a ragged breath, a sense of calm settling over them. "C'mon, let's get you up, son." Hank helps Connor to his feet, walking him the short distance to the living room where he sits Connor down, bundling him in a blanket. He leaves Connor in the care of Sumo before going to make a coffee, deciding it would be best to give him a few minutes before asking what triggered the panic attack. When he returned, Hank sat down on the end of the couch, making sure Connor had plenty of space in case he felt trapped. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Connor looks up, he’d been staring at his hands, fingers tugging at the fraying ends of the old throw. Hank needs to find him another coin, he’d seen Connor use it as a stress relief enough times to know he needed it.

"I wanted to take Sumo for a walk, but when I went to go outside I found I just… I just couldn't." A thread breaks, a delicate string of red, Connor starts winding it around his finger. "I thought my systems were failing, I couldn't breathe, I felt paralysed… overwhelmed with fear." Around and around the tread goes, if he were human it would be cutting off the circulation by now.  "I felt like… it felt like," he shakes his head, words catching in his throat, "I don't want to say it."

"It felt like you were back in the damn truck," Hank said for him. Replaying the assault over and over was normal, Hank knew that, had worked enough of these cases to know how the victim would behave in the following days, _weeks_. "It's normal for this to happen, Connor.” He sets his coffee on the table, deciding it was time to give Connor the pamphlets he received yesterday from the sexual assault support worker at the hospital. Connor would be able to easily access this information on his own, but it seemed wrong, _cruel_ to let him search the net for such sensitive information.

Returning, Hank spreads the pamphlets out on the table in front of them, resting a comforting hand on Connor’s shoulder as the kid’s eyes widen, body tensing under his touch. God, this is killing him to see Connor like this. The flicker of fear is unmissable, the slight hitch of breath has Hank holding his breath, waiting for another panic attack to start. Connor exhales, the look of panic diminishing as he deflates, resigned to his fate.

"These will help you understand what's happening," Hank explained, worries he's fucked up because Connor's LED is spinning yellow, flickering red. He really should call the social worker Lydia recommended, Connor needs more help then he can give. He's also not willing to let Connor repeat the same mistakes he made, his own experiences with therapists will be pushed aside. Connor needs help, he needs support and Hank is going to make damn sure he gets it. At this moment, however, he's all the kids got, so he continues, words chosen with great consideration. "It's not going to be exactly how you feel, everyone reacts differently, but it's something."

This is wrong, he shouldn't be sitting here handing brochures on sexual assault to the android he took in. Hank was supposed to protect him, had promised to look after him since Cyberlife just abandoned him, dusted off their hands like they didn't spend months and millions of dollars creating the perfect deviant hunter. The perfect _deviant,_ deviant hunter as it turns out, until Connor betrayed them, made their twisted little plan to rule the world backfire. The kids been a pawn in a game of chess since the start, he didn’t deserve this and he sure as hell doesn’t deserve what’s to come next. 

Connor frowns, LED still glowing yellow, tears his gaze away from the table, and the confronting content spread out on it. "Can I read them later?"

"You can read them whenever you feel ready," he promised. "Take all the time you need, and if you have any questions or just want to talk, I'm here."

"I know" he falls gracelessly into a heap on the couch, curled up under the blanket, looking so very fragile.

Hank’s chest aches at the sight, heart sinking to the pit of his stomach. Sensing it was the best to leave Connor be, though hating to do so, he went to make breakfast and shower before Lydia arrived. He knew this day was only going to get worse, hell _it_ did get worse. Connor's behaviour has steadily grown more erratic over the course of the last four days, the spiral starting Sunday after the conversation from hell with Lydia. Hank doesn't want to replay it again, it's been stuck on a loop for four fucking days, and he still can't get the image of how stricken Connor looked when Lydia revealed the story, the _lies_ Gavin told.

Hank felt sick to his stomach, though he shouldn’t have expected anything less from the bastard. He denied everything, said it was consensual, the only truth spoken was that he admitted to being high, which Hank has a suspicion he admitted to as failsafe. Of course, he would lie, everyone fucking lies, but fabricated stories can be dismantled, the evidence can speaker louder than words and Hank would have turned the world inside out to find a shred of it. He would have found something, he always did and just because Connor didn’t have any physical marks from the assault doesn’t mean he wouldn’t be able to prove it happened.

The problem is, he's not allowed to turn Gavin's SUV inside out or hold him in custody until he breaks, _cracks_. He's damn good at getting people like Gavin to reveal the monster within. Not that any of it matters because androids don't have rights to their bodies. Apparently being declared sentient leaves loopholes for pricks like Gavin, sentient doesn't mean alive, not to the people in power. This is where Connor broke. Hank had been so consumed by rage that he didn't notice the splinters start to shatter, didn't have time to catch Connor before he fell apart at the seams.

Only it wasn’t a devastating, thunderous breakdown, it was silent, deadly, something in him giving up, _giving in._ Calmly, like the lull before a storm, Connor stood up, thanking Lydia for all she'd done, she tried to reason with him, they both did, promising justice Hank isn't sure Connor will get. Connor wasn't hearing them, he was giving up, voice hollow as he said there was nothing to be done, it was over. _He’d get over it_. Like it was just another wound, easily fixed with new parts, or a shitty day that could be remedied by playing with Sumo. If only it would be that easy, if only such a deep cut could heal so quickly.

Connor wasn’t healed, he was fucking rivers and roads away from being better. He was hurting, and the pain was taking hold of him a little more each day. Connor might be wearing fake smiles, but the mask was flimsy, barely concealing the turmoil brewing within. When Monday morning rolled around Connor insisted he was ready to return to work, Hank refused, knew right away that this act of false bravado wouldn’t last long, that was four fucking days ago now.

With Gavin on suspension for the possession of red ice, Hank thought it would be best to let Connor return to work, at least then he could keep an eye on him. The precinct was honestly the last place Connor should be, Hank knew that, but until he got through to the kid Hank would rather keep him at his side. Not even the social worker Lydia recommended could get through to Connor, it was like a switch had been flicked, the truth once more erased. Hank feared that Connor had done something again, he didn't understand how androids' memories worked, but if Connor managed to change the events before then surely, he'd have no trouble doing it again.

As the days bleed into a mess of worry and the nights are spent awake, listening, waiting for the screams that never come, Hank’s suspicion seems to be true. He’d done something, he’d removed the memory and yet Connor wasn’t okay, he wasn’t anything remotely close to okay. God, Hank hadn’t seen him this way since deviating, no, this is so much fucking worse, at least than Connor was trying to understand his feelings, now he’s completely cut off. Not robotic like he was at the start, there is anguish fighting to be felt, visible to those who are looking at just the right time.

He tries to keep Connor on desk duty, keep him filing reports and fetching coffee, anything to keep him away from the field. He should know by now that he can't keep Connor still for long, should know the kind of pain he is in will lead to something dangerous. There is a robbery at a pawn shop in downtown Detroit, Connor insists he's coming along. Hank only allows it because he's at his wit's end, hopes that maybe being back in the field will shake a lose a memory and Connor will stop pretending he's okay.

It's an awful thing to hope for, a terrible thing to want, but this forgetting, acting like it never happened, is damaging. Connor must feel it, the agony, the sorrow, the misery, must feel every damn thing or he'll never heal. Hank knows that he's not the best role model when it comes to handling emotions, even if he's six days sober now. Though he is desperate for a drink, has clutched the whiskey bottle more times than he's proud of. He always tucks it away under jumpers and shirts he hasn't worn in years, closing the drawer with a heavy sigh. Connor will need him sober when the memory slams back into him.

And that better happen fucking soon too, because as their investigating the pawn shop a guy snatches some ladies purse on the street and Connor gives chase without a moment's hesitation. He almost catches the guy, almost gets hit by a fucking car while doing so too. Hank doesn't yell at him until they are home, the anger, the fear bubbling over, and it all comes rushing out in words of fury. It's not the right thing to do, Connor doesn't deserve it, but God fucking damn it once he starts he can't stop. 

_‘You could have been killed for fuck's sake!'_

_‘You're acting out because you're hurting Connor and it needs to stop.'_

_‘You can't keep pretending this didn't happen, you were… you were… someone hurt you, and you have to deal with it!'_

Even amidst the rage, he couldn't say the word, didn't want to jar Connor so brutally back to reality. His rage was met with stunned silence, Connor just stood there, frozen, and Hank thought this is it, he's going to remember. The emotions are going to roar back to life, and it's going to be heartbreaking and messy, but at least he'll be feeling again. The moment seems to stretch on into infinity, then Connor blinks, LED cycling from red to yellow and back again before turning blue. Calm blue, like the fucking sky on a picturesque day.

_‘I’m sorry Hank, I’ll be more careful from now on.’_

With that said he walks away, disappearing into his room and Hank is the one frozen in place, cursing every God he can think of. This can't go on, he needs to do something, only he has no fucking clue how to reach Connor. God, he needs a drink, needs a dozen, needs to drown out this week from hell and float in that pleasant buzz of numbness. The bottle is clasped tight in his hands before he even registers what he’s doing, fingers shaking, ember liquid sloshing around inside. He regrets replacing the whiskey bottle he drained down the sink last Saturday evening, shouldn't have brought the temptation back into the house. He wants to make the pain go away so bad, wants to wash away the memory of Connor nearly getting cleaned up by that fucking auto-cab. Instead, he puts it away, deciding there is a much more satisfying way to release the storm brewing under his skin.

**XxX**

The nights are quiet in New Jericho now, in the beginning, there was always some sort of festivity taking place, the streets filled with song, the air charged with joy. The revolution had been won, androids were no longer slaves to the humans, that was cause for dancing, for days and nights spent celebrating. Markus never wanted to point out that the fight was far from over, they were not yet out of the dark, their freedom at the time had been on loan, could have been ripped away at any time.

It took three months for the people to return to Detroit after the evacuation, those who stood by the androids stayed, as did most of the police force and other emergency services. The city didn't come to a complete standstill, but it felt like a ghost town most days. It was peaceful, Markus and his fellow androids were able to move around freely as they searched for other androids, recusing them from the camps, from the chains that had shackled them for so long.

They lived at the Cyberlife tower until the CEO's returned and demanded they leave, Markus refused to go without a place for his people. There were over a thousand androids that would be displaced if their creators got their way. The Mayor of Detroit and President Warren decided the best approach would be to give the androids a section of Detroit to call their own. New Jericho was born, at first nothing more than a suburb of rundown homes, abandoned stores and overgrown parks. Still, it was theirs, it was safe and big enough for all of them as androids didn't mind sharing or need the many amenities that humans did.

Markus moved into a house atop a hill overlooking the valley below, able to look down and keep a watchful eye on his people. The two-story brick house had seen better days, the floors were rotten, walls graffitied with words, symbols and RA9 painted perfectly six-hundred and thirty-five times throughout the house. Even under the grim and dust the house reminded him of Carl's, had the protentional to be warm, to be filled with laughter and love. It held the promise of a bright future, and though Markus could never go home, he knew one day this place would fill that void.

It has, not because the dust has been swept away or the windows replaced, but because the people he loves have made it feel that way. Upstairs music drifts down from North’s bedroom, something surprisingly uplifting for a change. Josh is sitting in the living room, reading a book in front of the fire while Simon works on yet another new project. The music dances over Markus’s skin, hand hovering over the blank canvas, paint teetering dangerously on the end of the bristles.

Inspiration hasn't struck tonight, he's been using art as a form of communication lately, he can say all the right things, meet all the right people, but more needs to be done. Art brings people together, it can say more than any speech ever could. After all, it was a simple painting that started all of this, a glimpse of free will that began to wake him up. Art is something Markus understands in great depths, not being able to create it is frustrating.

Sighing, he set the brush aside before it drips onto the canvas. He missed his muse. It's been a little over ten days since he last saw Connor, they'd had the house to themselves that night, spent it learning new things to try under the covers. The following day inspiration struck. It always did whenever he spent time with Connor, how could it not? Connor risked his life to save their people, he fought his programming twice to gain control of his freedom. He was admirable, stronger than he'd ever give himself credit for, but it was his kindness, his gentle nature that lured Markus is. He was designed to be unamusing, approachable, but deviancy showed that Connor's affectionate nature ran deeper than programming.

Worry nagged at Markus's processor at the thought of the detective, he hadn't heard from Connor since a short text message on Sunday, and it was odd for him not stop by or at least call. Markus reasoned with himself, they both had hectic schedules, it was perfectly reasonable for Connor to be overworking himself, which wasn't a comforting thought either. Maybe he should stop being so damn stubborn and just call him, with a built-in phone what excuse does he really have?

He's searching through his list of favourite contacts when the doorbell rings, a short-determined buzz. Markus hastily gets to his feet, rushing to it before Josh and Simon even had the chance to get up. Markus can see Connor's silhouette through the mottled glass of the door. He takes a steadying breath, smoothing down his paint-stained shirt before opening the door, a gust of cold night air blowing in. Connor smiles in greeting, his usually well-kept hair windswept, cheeks flushed blue with thirium.

“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes” Markus steps aside, allowing Connor to enter before taking his coat. “I was just thinking of you.”

“You were?” Connor asked, surprise colouring his words.

“Of course,” Markus shuts the door, locking out the bitterly cold wind, “I often find you on my mind.” He stepped closer, pressing a quick kiss to Connor’s cheek.

“Oh.”

The blush deepens, and Markus can’t help but reach up to trace a finger over his beautifully crafted cheekbone, frowning at the coldness he feels. “You’re cold, is everything alright?”

“Oh, um, actually that’s why I’m here,” he fidgets on the spot, hands wringing together, “my deviancy has given me the ability to feel cold.” He smiles, it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You are full of surprises Connor.” No other android was changing the way Connor was, not even Markus himself, though that didn’t mean it wasn’t possible for it to happen. Connor was different though, had always been different, the only android ever designed to become deviant. “C’mon, let’s go sit in front of the fire before you start to rust.”

Connor laughs, it sounds strangely hollow, not at all like the rich, warm laughter Markus has come to know and cherish.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Markus asked, looking over his shoulder at Connor, waiting to catch the lie but his LED remains blue.

“Functioning at full capacity,” he teased. “Really, I’m fine, just overworked.”

“And what did we say about that?” Markus stepped into the living room, expecting to see Josh and Simon but they must have retreated upstairs while he was at the front door. Not that he wasn’t going to complain about having time alone with Connor.

“That I need to take care of myself,” he flopped onto the couch, hands reaching towards the flames to soak in the warmth.

“Yes,” Markus sits next to him, close enough that their thighs are brushing, he notice’s Connor shiver, “and have you been?”

Connor’s hands drop to his knees, a troubled look flickering in his dark eyes, the sight awakening concern within Markus, but then it’s gone. Connor is looking a at him, smiling as warmly as the flames roaring before them. “Yes.”

“Good,” Markus grins; takes hold of Connor’s chin with one hand and brings him in for a kiss.

Connor pulls away, seems a little unsteady, conflicted like it was at the start, scared and confused by the emotions running rampant through him. Markus is worrying again, there is clearly something bothering him, but before Markus can give chase to these thoughts, Connor is drawing him in for another kiss. It's desperate, a little sloppy and awkward because of the angle of their bodies. Without breaking the kiss Markus eases them back on the couch, his torso draped over Connor's, their thirium pumps beating heavily in time.

It’s not an overly convenient position, but now Markus is kissing Connor he cannot stop. He's missed this. It's damn time he tells Connor how he feels, this has gone too far for him to deny the flutters in his non-existent stomach, the joy coursing through his wires at the sight of him. Markus wants them to be more than friends who delight in the pleasure of one another. This has become more than just curious infatuation. It’s full-blown love. Connor is Markus's muse, his best friend, the person he seeks when the weight of the world is heavy on his shoulders. He's going to tell Connor tonight, as soon as his mouth is free.

Sometimes it feels like he'll never get enough of Connor, Markus craves him the way humans crave drugs. Only Connor doesn't wreck lives or damage his insides, he fills him with hope, with lust, brings only happiness and desire. What started out as a basic need to understand their deviancy has grown into something beautiful, turned into something Markus never thought he could have. Desire sparks in Markus's wires, kiss deepening, hands moving down, skimming over soft fabric of the woollen jumper he adores seeing Connor in, dipping below the hemline to tug at the zipper of his jeans.

Markus remembers each time he’s undressed Connor, takes the memories out and replays them when he’s alone and all worked up. He knows the placement of every mole, can tell just how good something feels by the intake of Connor’s breath, so when he freezes, breath hitching, he knows something is wrong. He leans back just as Connor grabs his wrist, grip fierce, eyes wide in fear. Fingers unlace from his wrist, hands moving up to shove harshly at his shoulders.

“Get off me!”

Markus jumps to his feet, feels his thirium pump lurch into his throat, fear rushing through him. He doesn’t get a chance to speak, doesn’t even get the chance to formulate words because Connor is already fleeing. He gives chase, knows he can’t let Connor leave in this state, needs to know what the hell is going on. He grabs hold of Connor’s arm, twirling him around a little more harshly then he would have liked, but something is wrong, Connor is scared, and he needs to know why.

“Connor, hey, slow down.”

“You can’t touch me like that,” he screams, pulling free with such force he stumbles backwards, “please, let me out, please.”

Connor isn’t talking to him, there is a terrified glaze to eyes that aren’t seeing the world before him. He’s trapped somewhere deep within his mind, trapped in a time where someone hurt him. Markus has never felt so powerless, so sick with fear. Can feel it like gasoline spreading to every sensory nerve, pulsating through his veins, one strike of a match and he’ll go up in flames.

“Connor, my love, it’s just me,” he takes a step forward as Connor takes one back, colliding with the wall.

“Please,” he begs, sounds so afraid, so broken that Markus feels tears sting at his eyes. “Please stop, I don’t want this.” He drops to the ground, an earth-shattering scream tearing from his throat, piercing the air like a banshee’s wail.

The scream has bought Josh, Simon and North to the foyer, Markus doesn't notice them, can't see anything else but Connor falling to ruins. He goes to comfort him, but North stops him, tentatively walking towards Connor, calling to him softly.

“Connor, shh,” she kneels next to him, arms outstretched but not touching, “you’re safe. You’re with us.”

Focus returns to his eyes, a ragged sob rushing out into the night air “I didn’t want it… I said for him to stop.”

“I know,” she soothes, placing a delicate hand on his knee, “I know.”

“Connor,” Markus steps closer, crouching down so he can meet Connor’s grief-stricken eyes, “what happened?”

 _Markus, you already know_ comes North sharp reply in his mind, but he doesn’t know, doesn’t want to believe.

“R… Detective Reed… we were in his truck,” Connor trembles, looks ready to tear apart at the seams, “he… he held me down and… and he f… forced himself on me.” His face crumbled, another broken scream ripping into the air, cut through with static as his voice module strains under the abuse.

 _He’s been raped, Markus_ North clarifies, words drenched in venom.

“Connor, oh God, Connor I’m so sorry,” Markus moved without thinking, the urge to hold him close stronger than his common sense. Connor pulled back violently, eyes rolling to the back of his head as his body spasmed, sending him crashing to the floor in a writhing mess of limps. “Connor!”

“What’s happening to him?” came Simon’s panicked voice.

"He's having a seizure." The information flashed in his mind, Markus wastes no time following the thread back to its source. "Josh go get us a car, we've got to get him to Cyberlife. North help me roll him onto his side. Simon, hold his legs."

“I still don’t know what happened” Simon dropped to his knees, helping them turn Connor onto his side as Josh runs out into the night.

“He’s been raped,” North shouts, struggling to keep Connor’s convulsing torso on the ground, “congratulations Markus, humans are still hurting us.”

Markus doesn’t respond, though her words hit him with all the force of a punch to the gut, the truth sitting heavy in the air. Someone… no not someone, Detective Reed raped Connor, and according to the law, which Markus has been desperate to change, he’ll get away with it. There’s no time to chase these thoughts, no time for guilt or anger, not while Connor’s life is hanging in the balance. They need to get him to Cyberlife, find and fix whatever is causing his system to malfunction, then, only then can Markus pursue justice for the man he loves.

**XxX**

There isn't enough air. There is too much noise. Too many questions he doesn't have the answers to. All he knows for certain is that Connor was raped, doesn't know when or where or what sort of injuries he sustained in the assault. Anger coils in his gut; burns through him, the urge to scream building in his chest, barely contained as he paces the too bright waiting room of Cyberlife. North's eyes follow Markus’s every movement, he doesn't have the strength to look at her, doesn't have the right words to say. He should offer support though, can only imagine this is dredging up an assortment of traumatic memories for her.

North’s been fighting with him for her right to have justice for months. He kept telling her to wait, justice will be served, but if they revealed too soon just how flimsy their rights were, then it could put them in danger. If the wrong person learnt that androids didn't have the power to press charges, to go after those who hurt them, then it could give them ideas. North saw the reason in his concerns, anti-android movements were weak, but this kind of information was dangerous in their hands.

It was wrong and unfair, and Markus hadn't even been aware of the loophole until three months ago when North thought it was time the androids who'd been abused got some justice. Markus knew charging a human with harming a machine was pointless, even if they were deviant now. It wasn't until a Blue haired Traci approached him with a proposal to open a support group for the survivors of sexual assault did he realise just how many had been deviant while enduring their trauma.

The most common form of deviancy was trigged in times of high stress or peril. His people had suffered at the hands of monsters and he couldn't, _wouldn’t_ deny them justice. The conversations started after that, but that's all everything ever was with the humans. Talk, false promises, placating smiles and lie after lie. Markus has allowed the people in power to walk all over them, they've been pulling their strings for far too long, offering only the sense of freedom. It was time to sever the threads, to return to the streets in protest, be loud, roar for all to hear.

For North. For Connor, who didn’t deserve this, who was very much a deviant when Reed raped him. The law couldn’t brush this off, this wasn’t a person damaging a machine, Connor felt the cold, felt pain, he was _alive._ God, Connor felt pain, which meant he _felt_ everything Reed did to him. Sex had only ever been pleasurable for Markus, but from listing to other’s past experiences he knew that it could be rough, dirty, brutal enough to break androids. Connor had been alone, he would have been scared, _terrified_ and Detective Reed wouldn’t have cared, he would have relished in the pain he was causing.

Markus wants him dead, no he wants him castrated, would do it himself, would break all his own oaths and vows to undo what has happened to Connor. He’d rather watch his kingdom fall then accept this reality. That’s why he denied the whispering voice earlier, already knowing what had been done. He should have listened, should have gently coaxed the truth from Connor’s unwilling tongue, instead of triggering a panic attack. He can’t change the events of tonight, can’t rewind time and save Connor from this cruel act of violence, there is no changing what has been done.

The truth slams into him, takes the air from his lungs, has him doubling over and gasping in short ragged breaths. Panic sears through his chest, horror making a strange queasy sensation roll under his abdomen. Tears sting at his eyes, anguish overtaking the fury as he falls to his knees, coming apart at the seams. It hurts, it hurts like hell, and he doesn't have the right to be falling apart when it's Connor who's been hurt, doesn't have the right to tears when North is holding hers at bay. But he's coming undone in ways he never knew he could, and he'll be forever grateful for North, who takes him into her arms and lets him cry.

“He’ll be okay Markus,” she vows, “Connor is the toughest of all us, he’ll pull through this.”

“Not when it comes to emotions.” Connor’s struggle with deviancy had been heartbreaking, the guilt, the lack of self-worth had nearly torn him apart. Markus stayed steadfast at his side, guiding him through the ever-changing emotions. It took many sleepless nights, long conversations, patience’s and unrelenting strength on Connor’s part to get him through it. At times old fears would resurface, guilt would return, taking the smile from his face, the light from his eyes. Every time Markus would find the right words to say, search his memory for the perfect quote from a famous philosophiser or impart wisdom learnt from Carl. There was no quote or pretty string of words for this though.

“So, you’re just gonna give up on him?” North demanded sharply.

“What, no, of course not,” he drew back, horrified she thought he’d abandon Connor when he needed him the most. But then she is smirking slightly and Markus sighs, she never doubted how much he cared for Connor, she just wanted to remind him that they could get him through this. “Thank you.”

"You don't have to thank me, Markus, I'm your friend," she rose, bringing him with her, "I'm here to remind you when you're being an idiot."

Markus huffed a broken laugh, pulling her into his embrace, “I’m sorry North, this mustn’t be easy for you.”

“Don’t worry about me,” she breaks the hug, offering him a devilish smile, “Worry about what I’m going to do to Detective Reed.”

"North," he warns, scrubbing a hand over his face, "I'd love nothing more than to let you break Reed's bones, but we can't start acting violently now," he paused, letting the anger rush out of his lungs. "Even though I'd love nothing more than to castrate him."

“You love him,” North stated, briefly catching Markus by surprise, but of course she knew how he felt about Connor, she probably knew before he did, “and yet you won’t harm the human who raped him.”

“Harming Reed would only further harm Connor,” he pointed out, taking her hands into his own, squeezing them to reassure her and steady himself, “and our people. It’s time we do what you asked of me, North. We’re going to protest; we’re going to fight for our… _your_ right, Connor’s right, to have justice.”

“Okay,” she nodded, dark lashes fluttering to chase the tears from her eyes, determination taking their place, “let’s give them hell.”

Markus bows his head, foreheads meeting, connecting as wave after wave of emotions surges through them, taking and giving strength. They stayed this way until the thud of heavy footsteps disrupted the connection, his name, spoken with desperation and panic, slicing through the silence. Looking towards the entrance, he saw Hank moving swiftly towards them. Markus stepped away from North, keeping a hand braced on her arm, taking in strength for what was to come next.

**XxX**

Hank's always had a temper, has gotten into his fair share of fights because of it. After Cole's death, that anger consumed him. Rage and grief led him to the bottom of a bottle, left him reckless and itching to start a fight just so he could swing at something. He wanted to hurt the world as badly as it hurt him, wanted to break it, burn it to ash. That fiery rage consumed him for years, still flickered deep inside, rising at times to retake control. The way it had tonight.

Hank couldn't save Cole, couldn't yell at the android who'd killed him; it would have been pointless, it was just a machine doing its damn job. There wasn't a face to hit, wasn't anyone else to hate but himself. But he can hate Gavin, can break his bones under his boots and bruise his flesh under his knuckles. It's not going to undo what's been done or help Connor heal, but if the justice system is going to fail Connor, then he sure as hell won't.

There is a logical part, silenced by the fury, that knows he shouldn't do this, it goes against everything he stands for. But if he does nothing the anger will spread, poison coursing through his veins, driving him back to the edge. He can't topple back into the abyss, Connor needs him now more than ever, and he just wants Gavin to know he hasn't gotten away with this. He doesn't have to hit him, though the urge is strong, he just needs everyone in this fucking city to know what he did. Tonight, the crowd gathered in this shitty bar will have to do.

Hank's been parked across the street from Owen's bar for the past hour, watching Gavin knock back shots with friends. The sight turns Hank's stomach; he looks gleeful, relaxed, it's all Hank needs to see to know there is no remorse over what he did to Connor. Not that he expected to see any, he'd never be sorry for what he did. Hell given his story, Hank wouldn't be surprised if in that messed up brain of his he truly believes he did nothing. People like him think they own the fucking world, that people are theirs for their enjoyment, that they can have whatever they fucking want.

Well, not this time.

Hank's reaching for the door handle, fuelled by bitterness, by a twisted desire for justice when his phone rings. If it had been anyone else he would have ignored it, hell he usually did, but that was Connor's ringtone. The soft melody shattered the rage, pulled him back from the brink of a terrible mistake. He's scrambling for the cell, breathing out a shaky breath before answering, trying to keep the swelling emotions out of his tone. The person on the other end is not Connor, it's Markus, and any lingering sparks of rage are doused in icy panic.

Connor is at Cyberlife; he's had a seizure; androids aren't meant to have fucking seizures. Something is wrong; something is damaged in that fancy head of his and its Reed's fault. He bashed Connor's skull into his fucking dashboard; he hurt him, he fucking raped him. Hank wants Gavin dead, could walk right into that shitty bar and put a bullet right between his eyes; instead he grips the wheel and speeds off. Connor needs him. He can't lose another son, can't handle that pain again.

He never thought he would love Connor this much. Never thought he could allow room in his heart again, not for anyone, let alone a damn android, but Connor, even before deviating, awoke something in him. He was different, was more than just codes and programs in-stored under a friendly face, he cared even when he shouldn't be able to. After becoming deviant that compassion only deepened, Hank watched a person come to life, find his feet in the world, and it made him so damn proud. It took a while for him to accept these feelings, there had been guilt and denial but, in the end, there was no point in denying that he considered like Connor a second son.

Cole would always be in his heart, that pain would never truly heal, but that didn't mean he couldn't love Connor too. It's why he can't lose him, couldn't survive the loss. Connor is so young; he shouldn't be going through any of this. He'd been used and abused by the world from the very start, a puppet for Cyberlife to make dance, an engineered machine to take control of the Android revolution. It took months for Connor to heal, to be sure that Amanda wasn't going to return and take control of him again. Hank had watched him heal and grow so much over the past ten months, saw him become happier, stronger with each passing day. He'd finally been free, happy and Gavin destroyed all of that. He hurt Connor in the worst possible way and the life he'd worked hard to build was shattered.

Connor deserved better, God he deserved so much better than this. Hank couldn't undo what had been done, not even breaking Gavin's jaw and letting this whole city know that he was rapist would fix this. It could have made it worse, though he doesn't think things could be worse. Connor could be dying, could be broken or shutting down, he doesn't fucking know, but androids shouldn't be having seizures. Not that Connor was ever like the others, was designed differently from the start and the past few weeks have proved just how unique he is. There might have been hundreds of other RK800 models but Connor, his Connor was one of a kind.

God, please let him be okay.

The car comes to a screeching halt at the closest park to the Cyberlife tower; he's so fucking sick of this place. He's brought Connor here far too many times, could walk blindfolded to the sixth floor and navigate his way through the winding corridors to the repair lab with ease. The main floor is empty when he enters, the elevator ride too long, the music to cheery for such a time. He's nothing but raw nerves and ice-cold fear by the time he spots Markus, calling his name in desperation.

“Where is he?” he demands, panting, wished he’d gone on more walks with Sumo and Connor, “I want to see him.”

"He's being looked after," Markus said in that annoyingly reassuring voice of his, but even Hank could see the apprehension in his eyes.

“What the hell happened?” Markus didn’t say much over the phone, just that Connor was having a seizure and he needed to come to Cyberlife. He didn’t even know Connor had gone to Markus’s, assumed he was safe, tucked up in bed with Sumo. God, he shouldn’t have left him alone, not at a time like this.

Markus looked at the female android, North he assumes, briefly before looking back to meet his eyes. "Connor stopped by for a visit and…" he paused, looking nervous, something Hank had never seen before, "and we were kissing when suddenly Connor started panicking. He tried to leave but I feared letting him go in the distressed state he was in wouldn't have been the right thing to do. I grabbed his arm," Markus's voice tightened, a dozen emotions playing across his face, "and he started yelling at me, but he wasn't seeing me, he was-"

"-Seeing Reed." Fuck, he was afraid of this, of course kissing someone would trigger him. Hank doesn't even have time to process the fact Connor has been seeing the android leader, that Markus is the one Connor had been sleeping with. There's no time to deal with any of this, even though he wants to scream at Markus, punch him that perfectly designed face of his because how dare he take advantage of his son, but he didn't know what Gavin had done. If he had, he probably would have been able to gently coax Connor back from denial. He should have reached out to Markus, he knew they were friends, why didn't he think to fucking call him? Maybe if he had then Connor wouldn't be at fucking Cyberlife having seizure.

“You knew?” anger flickers in his mix-matched eyes, rolls off him in waves, “you knew he’d been raped and you didn’t call me? I would have been there for him.”

"I'm not fucking apologising for not telling you Markus," he snapped, hands tightening into fists, the anger of being kept in the dark momentarily outweighing his fear. "I didn't even know you and Connor were seeing each other, so calling you was the last thing on my mind when I found out my son was raped." He spins around, pacing a few feet away, shaking the anger free. Dropping heavily into the familiar orange vinyl seat, Hank lets the last of the anger dispel from his lungs, turning to look back at North and Markus. "You're here now, you _know_ now, so if you want to leave, if this is too much for you to handle, I want you to go now, but if you choose to stay, then you don’t get to walk away. You are in this for the long run, understand?”

“I would never leave Connor.” There is an unspoken declaration of love underlying his words; it’s glistening with the tears in his eyes, is sitting in the air between them. “I am not going to abandon him,” he closes the space between them, kneeling before him and it feels wrong. Androids shouldn’t ever kneel to humans ever again, especially not the leader, but Markus is making a promise to a father. “I promise you I will help him through this. I won’t run, I won’t give up, I will get him justice. I will fight for him.”

“I’m holding you to that.” Surely if anyone can pursue justice for Connor it will be Markus, he makes demands and people listen, he will fight for Connor and Hank thinks he might damn well win.

“I don’t break vows,” he gets to his feet, sending a glance North’s way, she is watching this unfold with disapproving eyes, arms crossed in a defences stance, “can I get you a coffee?” he asks, ever the polite diplomat, “It’s probably going to be a long night.”

"Yeah, sure, thanks," he tilts his head back, looking up at the bright fluorescent lights like they might hold answers to this hellish situation. "Has there been any news on Connor?" he looks back to Markus, glances behind him to see that North is gone, assumes she's gone to collect the coffee.

"Not since I called you," Markus gracefully lowers himself onto the seat next to him, "they were trying to stabilise him, but Rosa is here. Connor’s mentioned her before.”

"That girls patched him up more times than I can count," he huffed. Rosa was a twenty-six-year-old android medic, and she was nothing short of a genius, knowing she was here eased some of Hank's worry. "He's in good hands."

“I’m glad,” a beat of silence, loaded with the unspoken question, “when did it happen?”

Hank took a sharp intake of breath at the question; he'd been waiting for him to ask, "Last Friday… Connor went out on his own, I was pissed off, not at him, just at the world." The words are hard to speak, feel like glass sliding up his throat. "All we've been doing for months is chase after red ice dealers, still haven't found anything more than a handful of junkies distributing the shit," he shakes his head, hands balling into fists, "Reed was there, I don't know why. Maybe he was getting a fix, it doesn't matter," Hank closes his eyes, trying to steady himself, can't stand to see the horror unfold in Markus's eyes. "He knocked Connor out, dragged him into that fucking ugly truck of his and when Connor came to Reed assaulted him. Connor gave him hell, but Reed smashed his head into the dashboard…" he opens his eyes, looking to Markus who looks as horrified as he imagined, "Could that be the cause of this? The repeated blows to the head?"

"It's certainly a possibility," he rose swiftly to his feet, blinking the tears from his eyes, forcing himself to appear put together, composed, "I'll inform Rosa.” He rests a comforting hand on Hank's shoulder, adding, "Connor's strong, lieutenant, he'll make it through this," before turning to leave, disappearing into the hallway.

Hank sighed, glancing up at the ceiling once more, praying for the first time in years that Markus was right, hoping to a God he wasn’t sure he believed in that Connor would survive this.


	5. Don't Let Me Be Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again for all the amazing comments :) I love knowing what everyone thinks of this story, and your lovely words always encourage me to keep writing!  
> Enjoy chapter 5 it's another emotional ride!

Connor came apart so violently Sunday morning, remaining strength turning to ash as he shook, hope dying in his chest. He didn't want Hank to see him like this again, tried to keep himself composed as he thanked Detective Danvers for her time. Almost broke down when they pushed, pleaded for him to stay, felt the tears sting his eyes as he yelled at them, insisting they let it go. He wasn't acting rationally, mind spinning into chaos as Reed's false story played on loop. The revelation that he didn't have body autonomy flooding his nervous system with gasoline, lungs straining under the panic that gripped them like a vice.

He can’t breathe, can’t hear anything over the pounding of his heart. No strings left to hold him upright, Connor collapses to the floor, curling in on himself, biting back the scream threatening to tear from his throat. It hurts, it hurts like nothing as ever hurt before and he can’t fucking breathe, can’t hold in the gut-wrenching sobs. It’s too much; he needs it to stop, need his processor to stop glitching, sending him back to that God-awful moment.

Realty jumbles around him, he is under Reed, begging him to stop, then the image distorts, and he is once more crying on the bedroom floor, shattering to pieces. He is caught in the current, swept from memory to present in violent waves. There’s mud in his eyes, thirium on his tongue. Solid timber cold against his face, salty tears on his lips. He’s quivering under a heavy weight, harsh fabric bitting at his face. It’s agony; he’s _in_ agony as Reed violets him. It doesn’t hurt anymore, he’s safe, hugging himself on the floor, trying so hard to breathe. No, not safe, danger, pain, a hand is slipping between his legs, it hurts, it feels _wrong._ He’s in the back of the truck, screaming, bleeding. The world spirals, throwing him from past to present until there is no order to the waves of memories that crash over him.

Then it stops, the carousel screeching to a holt as stress levels reach critical. He's sitting in Reed's truck, staring out the rain spotted windscreen, the car doesn't smell of cigarettes, Reed isn't angry, he's silent, looking at him with curious eyes. Reed leans across the console and kisses him, Connor is surprised, pulls back, finding a sheepish look on Reed's face, apologies tumbling from his tongue. Connor hears himself say ‘Reed, I'm seeing someone' and there is an awkward laugh, another rush of apologies. Connor assures Reed its fine; it's just a misunderstanding, he should go now though. Reed nods, the door opens, and Connor slips out into the rain, doesn't notice that his coin falls from his pocket and disappears into the murky puddle at his feet. Lost, forgotten, like it was never there in the first place.

Connor’s eyes open, tears drying on his face, sobs dying in his throat. He gets up, dusts himself off, thinks he shouldn’t be so upset over such a little thing.

He is fine.

Nothing happened.

Everything is fine.

**XxX**

Connor doesn't understand why Hank is so distressed. He realises he made a mistake earlier that in hindsight he shouldn't have run into such heavy traffic, but he is unharmed, despite the close call. Hank is furious though, face flushed red as paces back and forth in front of him, shouting and waving his arms in wild, angry gestures. Connor can't get a word in edgewise, would very much like to apologise for his behaviour but Hank keeps yelling, shouting things he doesn't completely understand.

"You're acting out because you're hurting Connor and it needs to stop."

Hurt? He is uninjured, hasn't sustained any emotional trauma, apart from the unsettling dreams lately; otherwise, he is perfectly fine. Operating systems are running smoothly; he's replenished his thirium this morning before taking Sumo for a walk, nothing is wrong. Yet Hank says, ‘You can't keep pretending this didn't happen, you were… you were… someone hurt you, and you have to deal with it', and he feels his subconscious tug at something. Momentarily sending him back to the road that stretches into endless darkness and he feels a spike of panic. Someone hurt him? No, the thing with Reed was a misunderstanding, the uneasy feeling he felt over what happened was guilt. Which he knows he should feel because he doesn't have feelings for Reed, he didn't kiss back so Markus wouldn't be angry with him.

“I’m sorry Hank,” he says when there is a lull in the rage, “I’ll be more careful from now on.”

He doesn’t wait for Hank to start shouting again, turns on his heel and walks to his room, shutting the door firmly behind him. Leaning back against the smooth frame, he breathes out a shaky breath, the wires under his abdomen twisting painfully. Tears sting at his eyes, a frustrated scream biting at his throat, held in by a clenched jaw. There urge to flee is overwhelming, has him moving without thinking, throwing on a pair of boots and a coat ill-fitting for the frigid weather outside. Fear he doesn’t understand propels him out the window, slipping silently away into the night.

His feet carry him to Markus's on their own accord, the journey here spent chasing anxious thoughts round and round his head. There is a sense _something_ is wrong; a cold fear has awoken in his lungs, flooding his chest cavity. He doesn’t understand; there is hurricane unfolding inside his mind and no reason or rhyme for it to be there. Hank’s, _his_ home had suddenly felt unsafe, suffocating and the primal need to run, to get out had forced him all the way to New Jericho.

The confusion is driving him mad, the cyclonic thoughts leaving him dizzy, detached from the world around him. He doesn't even realise he's ringing the doorbell until he hears shuffling sounds from inside. Arms dropping to his side he steps back, shivering in the cold. The door swings open, stilling the maddening fear in his chest, the sight of Markus, haloed in the warm glow of the chandelier, has tranquillity washing over him. He's okay; he's fine, just overworked and upset that he disappointed Hank.

 “Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Markus steps aside, allowing him to enter, the affection in his voice has Connor’s thirium pump skipping a heart. “I was just thinking of you.”

“You were?” Connor asked, feeling a blush creep over his cheeks.

“Of course,” Markus smiles, dazzling and warm like a summers day, “I often find you on my mind.”

He stepped closer, Connor felt a trickle of fear, body stiffening as Markus kissed his cheek. Shaking off the uneasiness he offered a surprised ‘oh’ in answer, blush deepening. Markus often left him speechless, which was impressive given he had accesses to every word known to man. Markus’s fingers brush over his cheek, the touch startling him, but Markus doesn’t notice, too concerned by the temperature of his synthetic skin.

“You’re cold, is everything alright?”

“Oh, um, actually that’s why I’m here,” he shuffles, hands wringing together nervously, why is he nervous? Markus used to make him nervous, but this isn’t the butterflies in the stomach kind of feeling.  “My deviancy has given me the ability to feel cold,” he smiles, it feels fragile, he _feels_ fragile.

“You are full of surprises Connor,” Markus remarks, eyes sparkling with wonder, with adoration and Connor wants to melt into his embrace, wants him to chase the coldness from his chest, scatter the hurricane thoughts. “C’mon, let’s go sit in front of the fire before you start to rust.”

Connor laughs, it’s brittle, hollow. Hollow, the word stirs something painful, alarms sounding and vision glitching. Nails bite into the soft flesh of palms, the sharp pain anchoring him to the world.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Markus asks, looking back at him as they walk to the living room, the concern tangible.

"Functioning at full capacity," and he is, everything is running as efficiently as it always does, so why does he feel like he's about to break? "Really, I'm fine," The lie leaves his tongue with ease like it's been spoken a thousand times before. "Just overworked."

“And what did we say about that?”

“That I need to take care of myself,” he drops onto the couch, reaching towards the flames, desperate for the warmth to thaw the chill from his frame.

"Yes," Markus sits next to him, close enough that their thighs are brushing, it makes Connor flinch, wires and gears twisting uncomfortably in his stomach, "and have you been?"

Connor's hands drop to his knees, the recurring dream flashing in his mind, sirens screaming in his head that something is wrong.  Connor wants to say no, wants to open his mouth and tell Markus that he's not okay, he doesn't feel like himself but there is a lie leaving his tongue, and he can't take it back. His lips tugged into a smile; he feels like he's lost control of himself, someone else once more pulling the strings. Panic burns in his lungs as Markus pulls him in for a kiss, the urge to run reawakening, rising, faltering.

He breaks the kiss, looks into Markus's eyes and sees devotion, adoration, and for that moment all the chaos quietens. Connor wants to get lost in Markus's touch, let him kiss the worry from his mind, stroke the coldness from his skin. Connor kisses back, frantic and sloppy, _craving_ , needing the hole inside his chest to be filled, for the hollowness to be swept away. It’s not working; he’s slipping, falling back, falling through space and time.

Landing somewhere very far from where he wants to be.

It’s raining, the smell of cigarettes hang in the air, paper crunching beneath feet. Pain bursts to life in his head, thirium drips from a gash in his temple, vision glitching, audio cutting in and out before recalibrating, slamming him into the front seat of Reed’s truck. There is an unwanted hand tugging down his zipper, slipping into his underwear. It hurts, he wants it to stop. Please Stop. He is paralysed, thirium pump racing, stress levels rising dangerously high. Reed isn’t stopping; the touch is only getting more painful, he has to move. He needs to stop him.

"Get off me!" He's shoving, hitting, running only to end up back where he was at the start. He's terrified, confused, doesn't know why he can't escape, is stuck, suspended in this moment of terror. "You can't touch me like that," he screams, words ripping from his throat, shaking the earth beneath the truck. "Please, let me out, please." He's begging now, wants to go home to Hank, to Sumo, but Reed doesn't let him out. This was never a misunderstanding; he never apologised awkwardly afterwards.

"Please," he cries, begs as Reed's weight presses against his back, dirty fingers breaching his entrance. "Please stop, I don't want this," Reed withdraws his fingers, and for seven blissful seconds, Connor thinks it's over, he's going to stop, but then there is something thick being forced inside him, and he can't hold back the ear-splitting screams that tears from his throat. It hurts, its agony, it's only a memory, but it feels just as real as the first time.

 “Connor.”

A soft feminine voice reverberates through the cabin, calling him back. Connor reaches for it, fights against the glitch and rises, rises, rises. Teary eyes flutter open, he takes in a ragged breath, struggling to piece together his surroundings. The room comes together slowly, antique furniture, beige walls, concerned faces and terrified eyes, hands reaching towards him, a gentle voice saying, "you're safe. You're with us."

Reality crashes into him, the world settling on its axes as the room comes together in a rush of screaming colour. He’s sitting in the foyer of Markus’s home, North is next to him, her face softer than he’s ever seen it. Behind her is Markus, he looks like his whole world has just come crumbling down. A ragged sob rushes from Connor’s lungs, the words spilling from his mouth “I didn’t want it… I asked for him to stop.”

“I know,” North soothes, placing a delicate hand on his knee. “I know.”

“Connor,” Markus moves towards him, dropping to his knees, “What happened?”

God, he doesn’t want to say it, is tired of telling this story, tired of forgetting only to remember. He didn’t mean to forget, to create another imaginary scenario were nothing horrible happened to him. His programming must have been trying to protect him; he doesn’t think it’s going to have the chance to do so again. There is no more lying to himself, no more running away, there is only the ugly, brutal truth.

“D… Detective Reed… we were in his truck,” He trembles, feels ready to break apart at the seams, “he… he held me down and… and he f… forced himself on me.” The treads snap, he’s unravelling, he’s breaking and screaming. He can’t breathe, can’t see, can barely hear Markus’s broken voice as he cries ‘Connor, oh God, Connor’ then there is nothing but darkness.

**XxX**

Markus watches the steady rise and fall of Connor's chest, listens to the steady beat of his heart and thirium pump, keeps glancing at his closed eyes in hopes they will flutter open. There is only restless movement behind closed lids, body twitching slightly from micro-seizures, apart from that, Connor is still. They don't know what's happening to him; there is no damage to his neural processor or circuit boards and all the delicate wires connecting Connor to that beautiful mind of his are working correctly. There is no reason he should be fitting, an unsheathed wire, a crack in a circuit board would explain the symptoms, but Rosa has no answers for them.

All they can do is wait, is monitor Connor closely and hope he wakes. Markus needs him to wake up, to open those beautiful golden-brown eyes that he’s gotten lost in over a thousand times. He needs Connor to be okay because he doesn’t know how to live in a world without him. This is the world they fought fiercely to protect, that they created for themselves and their people, it would be incomplete without him. Markus would be incomplete with him.

Taking Connor's limp hand, he forces the swirling dark thoughts from his mind. They will fix this, they will find whatever is going wrong in that brilliant mind of Connor's, and then he'll wake up, and everything will be… well, not fine, not okay. Connor has been raped; nothing is going to be okay for a very long time. Rage fills Markus's lungs, coils in his wires, a deadly storm brewing below the surface. Detective Reed is not going to get away with this; humans are not going to hurt his people anymore. It's time to shake up history again, to pour into the streets with loud chants, wave their flags and march once more for their rights. No more games, no more loopholes for perverted men like Reed to abuse, androids will have the right to justice.

Connor will have justice, no matter what it takes.

Tonight, they need to save Connor's life. His systems are holding steady, thought the first seizure depleted his thirium levels, not to anything critically low but enough to warrant hooking him up to an IV. The micro-seizures weren't causing any noticeable difference to Connor's vitals, which Markus kept checking every sixty seconds. Across from him, Hank sat, nursing his third cup of coffee, shifting restlessly every thirty or so seconds. It had been two hours already; Rosa had left thirty minutes ago to chase another hunch, but as smart as she was, each time she still failed to provide a cause.

The air is thick with tension, unspoken words heavy in the space between them. Markus stayed quiet, allowing Hank time to process, to deal with whatever mess of thoughts are racing around his mind. Markus needed the silence to sort through the overload data churning through his mind. He was searching the vast libraries of information for an explanation for this, but all the medical date programmed into him was for humans. Abandoning the wealth of information at his reach he connected to the internet, intending to research seizures only to find himself seeking help on how to take care of loved one who’d been raped.

It was a spiral down a dark rabbit hole from there, and each article left him with a sinking sensation under his abdomen and a heavy heart. Recovery was going to be long and painful, the little experience he had from helping North paled in comparison. After the uprising and the dust settled, the spark between them fizzled out. She was angry, jagged edges and sharp words, always pushing Markus away when he reached for her. She had been someone's s _omething_ for so long, abused and used and though he offered her only affection, she grew to resent it. North needed to find herself, to be herself before she could be with somebody. Markus understood, at the time he needed to focus solely on their course, on being a good leader and he couldn't afford distractions.

It was a mutual choice to end whatever it is they had, and in truth, it was the best thing they could have done. They grew stronger alone, friendship blossoming, healthy and beautiful over the following months. North's loyalty was unwavering, her love for him no longer a jumbled mess of devotion and need. North was still angry, still jagged edges and sharp words, but she owned that, she was working on it. Markus had tried to help her repeatedly, only to be forced out. North kept her past under lock and key and in respect to her, he'd never gone chasing the information he was currently downloading.

Connor was different though. Connor could be as every bit dangerous as North but when it came to who he was as a person than they were nothing alike. Connor was gentle, was curious and almost childlike in his wonder. He’d sought comfort enough times in the past for Markus to know he’d seek it now. Though Connor was designed with top intellect and far more advanced than any factory-made android, none of those things mattered much once deviating. Connor was a person; first, thoughts and feelings he didn't understand for the longest time governing his choices. It didn't matter what he'd been, the programs he'd been given weren't running the show anymore, not the way they used to. Carl often talked about how humans were controlled by their emotions; time showed androids were no different.

So, it was no stretch of the imagination to see Connor needing moral support to get through this. He'd need people by his side to help him heal, to catch him when he fell. Markus promised Hank he wasn't leaving, vowed to get Connor through this and he would, so gathering the right information was crucial. North would have never forgiven him if he'd done this for her, she needed to face her past alone. Connor needed him, and Markus needs him to wake up so he can tell him that it was going to be okay. That no matter how much pain he felt, no matter how dark the days got, how deep the trauma went, he wasn't giving up on him.

Markus would fight for the man he loved.

***

"So, you and Connor," Hank's gruff voice cut into Markus's thoughts, "How long have you two been sleeping together?"

Markus knew this question was coming, felt it every time pale blue eyes flickered over his face. It wasn't the ideal time for this conversation, it was approaching midnight, and the fear for Connor had left the air filled with tension that could burst at any moment. He couldn't avoid the questions; Hank was practically Connor's father, he deserved to know. "We started sleeping together five months ago," five months, one week and three days to be exact. There's no forgetting their first time, even if it wasn't stored in his memory palace, he could never forget how beautiful Connor looked underneath him, like the worlds finest work of art. "We discussed it many times before; it was a mutual decision to explore sex with someone we both trusted."

“So, it’s just sex?” Hank, to his credit, was keeping his composure.

To Markus, the neutral expression was maddening. He had no idea what was going on in the lieutenant's head. "At first it was. We needed an escape from the world around us, and we found that in each other," he explained, choosing each word carefully, "sex seemed like the most human way to connect with each other and disconnect from the world. It was always consensual," he doesn't think Hank would accuse him of taking advantage of Connor, and God, he never would, but given where they are he feels it best to make it abundantly clear.

"He never told me any of this," he sighs loudly, leaning back in the chair, "I didn't even know Connor was having sex until I asked him after," he waves his hand, gesturing at Connor's unconscious form, Markus nods in understanding. "I didn't ask him who with, didn't seem important giving everything he'd been through that day," he trails off, eyes flickering to Connor's face.

“We never told anyone,” he admitted, though he chose to not disclose that his friends had either found out or walked in on them, “it was nice to have something we didn’t have to share with the world, that was just ours after being _theirs_ for so longs.”

Hank leans forward, large hand resting on Connor’s forehead, calloused fingers sweeping back the wispy tendrils of hair. “I suppose I knew something was going on between you two, I knew you were friends and that you made Connor happy,” a ghost of a smile tugs at Hank’s lips, “guess he had his reasons for not tellin’ me.”

“Connor wanted too.” Connor often spoke late at night, twined in his arms, winding down from his orgasm, that he’d like to tell Hank about them. Late at night, when it was just them, they allowed themselves to admit what they were, not just friends, not just two people enjoying sex together, but partners, _lovers._ When the sun rose in the morning, the day creeping in to remind them just how chaotic the world was, the words whispered against skin would be forgotten. "But we never defined what we were; it seemed too risky to tell the world something so intimate when we were still trying to understand it ourselves. I don't believe he kept you in the dark out of desire to keep you out of his life, Lieutenant, but rather as a precaution. Or maybe he just didn't quite know how to tell you he was sleeping with the android leader," he added in hopes of relieving some of the tension, grateful to see a brief smile for the effort.

"No, I don't suppose it would have been an easy conversation for him," he looks back to Connor, fingers still carding through his hair, the touch has settled the micro-seizures. "Without this sounding weird, I'm glad he got to experience sex as something positive. Like, at least what Reed did to him wasn't his only experience," he scrubs a hand over his face, "if that makes sense."

“It does,” Markus assured.

“God, I can’t believe this is happening,” Hank lowed his gaze, hiding the tears glistening in his eyes, “Reed’s done so much damage.”

Markus frowned, fingers curling against his palms, nails biting into the delicate skin. "Reed will not get away with this."

Grey lashes flutter, blinking tears from pale blue eyes, sheer determination taking their place. “No, he won’t.”

**XxX**

Connor doesn’t know why he’s here, has no memory of finding his way to this desolate road. He keeps walking, can’t make himself stop even though there is a sense that he should, a feeling that danger is ahead. The road stretches on into infinity, the only sound his shoes against the asphalt. There is no hoot of a howl overheard or even the distant echo of traffic from the city that surely must be somewhere in the distance. It’s quiet, it’s bitterly cold, but despite the freezing temperature Connor tugs off his clothes.

Tie first, fluttering to the ground, jacket next, dropped carelessly in a puddle of murky water. Trembling fingers tug at buttons, white material parting to expose a bare chest to the frigid air. Shoes follow, kicked aside, jeans next, slipping down thighs, left abandoned like the rest. Connor shivers in the cold, should put his clothes back on, go home and warm up, instead something pulls his strings, forcing him to lie down. The asphalt is hard against his back, the gravel biting at delicate skin, above the sky is starless, as dark and empty as the world around him.

It's quiet, so very quiet, and Connor is tired, eyes fluttering closed, arms dropping to his side, breath leaving his lungs.

“What are you doing out here?”

Connor’s eyes snap open, a shadowed face peers down at him, but that voice he knows; has heard many times before. He doesn’t answer, can’t find his voice, Reed doesn’t seem to care, is reaching through the darkness, offering him a hand. Connor accepts, lets Reed help him to his feet, suddenly feeling very exposed under Reed’s leering gaze. Reed’s lips curl into a smug smirk, something dangerous,  _predatory_ flickering in eyes.

“Here,” he shrugs off his coat, handing it to Connor who quickly puts it on, though it does little to cover him. “You don’t want people getting the wrong idea,” his gaze travels over his body, sending shivers racing up his spine and making fear twist in his gut, “c’mon, my truck is up ahead, I’ll drive you home.”

Connor doesn't want to follow, would rather stay here and freeze, but there is an outside force at work again. Strings pulled this way and that, making legs carry him towards the red SUV that is parked under a single streetlight. It's like a monster emerging from the dark, the very sight of it has panic coursing through Connor's systems, warning alarms sounding in his head, neon words screaming run, run, run, get away now. Body betraying him, it steps closer to the vehicle, hand lifting to press against the cold glass of the window.

A hand slams against the glass from the other side, a face, no his face, peering back at from within the dark, eyes wide in panic. “Run”, he screams, “go, run!” the trapped version of himself slams his fist against the window, the action startling Connor into motion. He spins around, ready to flee, to run as fast and as far from here as he can get, but his face slams into something solid and he falls back. Eyes snapping open, vision recalibrating, the cluttered interior of Reed’s truck coming into focus.

No, no, not again, he can't go through this again. Trembling fingers fumble with the door handle, it won't unluck, an elbow strikes the window, only causing pain. He is trapped, he is going to be raped, and there isn't anything he can do. He doesn't want this, never fucking wanted this and this time he's going to fight like hell to get free. A fist collides with the glass, pain bursting to life, artificial bone cracking, he doesn't care, he will destroy his damn hand if it means getting out of here. The glass is blue with thirium, the cabin flooding with smoke, hands are tugging at his clothes, going places they don't belong.

There’s no escape.

There never was.

**XxX**

Another hour creeps by; there are no changes to Connor's vitals. He is still, so very still and for a few moments, there are no twitches or tremors. He looks serene, something Markus has only ever seen when it's just the two of them, tucked away in his bedroom, laughing under the covers or sprawled out in the art studio, paint drying on their skin. It's the way Connor looks as the sun rises, golden beams flittering in through the gaps in the blinds to dance across mole speckled skin. Serenity does not come often to them; it's stolen in tender moments, cherished as long as it lasts. Golden-brown eyes will flutter open, for a few precious moments the look stays, lips quirked into a slight smile and a soft hello disturbing the morning air.

Serenity often gives way to chaos; this time is no different. Connor's body convulses, alarms screeching out, deafening in the quiet hours of the early morning. Hank watches in horror, looking from Markus to Rosa as they try to keep Connor's spasming body still. He screams at them to do something, but they don't know what's wrong, they haven't found anything mechanical to fix. Markus has spent the last half hour theorising with Rosa over possible causes, but they keep hitting a wall.

There are no frayed wires, no cracks apart from the small fracture in Connor's cheek plate, but it's almost mended and couldn't cause this. There is no damage to the neural processor, to any of the necessary hardware in his head. Connor didn't just sustain head injuries though; he was raped, he _was_ traumatised. This isn't mechanical, no, this is psychological, and Markus is kicking himself for not thinking of this earlier. Androids are not just hardware and wires, they are thoughts and feeling, they are alive, and trauma effects them as profoundly as it would a human. 

“I think I know what’s happening,” Markus looks from Rosa to Hank, fighting down the frantic edge to his words, “he’s having a psychogenic non-epileptic seizure.”

“In English,” Hank demands.

“It’s psychological,” Rosa explains, shimmering dark eyes widening in horror, “I don’t know how to stop this.”

“I think I do,” Markus looks to Hank, “I’m going to interface with Connor, it could be a long shot, but I might be able to speak to his subconscious and help him wake up.”

“How is that going to work?” Hank asked, stepping towards the bed to help Rosa pin down Connor’s trashing arms.

He doesn’t know how to explain this to Hank in a way he’ll understand, it sounds crazy enough in his own head. Interfacing shares memories and thoughts, transfers feelings and emotions, it’s never been used to protect oneself into a fellow android’s subconscious. He doesn’t know what else they can do, though, time is not on their side. “It’s a gut feeling,” it’s the best he has to offer, he’s under too much stress to string together a fancy speech and the seconds are ticking by.

Hank doesn’t need a monologue though; he’s a father worried for his adopted son. He holds Markus’s gaze, entrusting him with Connor’s life, “save my son Markus.”

“I will,” he shouldn’t make promises, vows he can’t keep, but he’s not going to let Connor die, isn’t going to let Reed take the most precious gift this world has given him. He’s going to save Connor’s life.

**XxX**

Connor likes Sunday’s; the world slows down, takes a deep breath. Sunny Sundays are perfect for taking Sumo for to the dog park or for spending hours in Markus studio, watching him paint. Rainy Sundays are the best for curling up in bed with a good book or for lazing on the couch beside Hank as they watch movies.

“You were built for this; you are a pretty toy, a machine.”

Cats are fascinating creatures, deadly and fast for their small size, but affectionate and sweet to those who treat them well.

"Nothing but a plaything, but God damn, you feel so real."

Think of blue skies dotted with clouds drifting lazily by. Think of home, warm, familiar, safe. Think of Markus, of those breath-taking heterochromatic eyes, the softness of his voice, the strength of his embrace. Think of something, think of anything but the pain, block out the dirty words and sickening slap of flesh. Endure, count the seconds, it will be over soon. Focus on the rain pouring down, not the hot breath against skin, not the feel of thirium dampening the seat between his legs. Don’t listen to words, don’t inhale the smell of sweat and sex tangled up with fear. It’s almost over, count the seconds, breathe, grip tight to something.

“Did they use you back at CyberLife?” teeth sink into the delicate flesh his neck.

Yes, CyberLife betrayed him, used him in a different way, but the violation is almost the same. Only this hurts so much more, this he wasn't strong enough to stop. Reed has succeeded where CyberLife couldn't. He owns Connor's body, his hands travelling wherever they desire, taking, claiming, marking.

"This is all your fault," Reed hisses into his ear, nipping painfully at the lobe, "you have been asking for this since the moment I met you, so, if you tell anybody, they ain't gonna do shit! You are a machine, and I own you," cruel words are followed by a vicious thrust, the momentum forcing Connor further into the seat. "You strutted around the office with that arse of yours, with your sweet puppy dog eyes and innocent flower façade, but I knew better," Reed quickens his violent thrusts, the pain is unbearable, there is no stopping the broken cry that rips from Connor's throat.

"I knew there was something hidden under that pretty face," he grunts, finds the right tempo that gives him the most pleasure and Connor the most pain, "God you make such pretty sounds, let me hear you, Connor, let me know how good this is for you."

It hurts, it's agony, and all he can do is scream, is beg for Reed to stop, but what's the point, the damage is done. Endure his system orders, endure or rick worse. Connor doesn't think there is worse, the pain has consumed him, the tears won't stop, and his voice has turned to static. Endure, survive, but how does he survive this? How can anyone survive this? It's his fault, all his fault. Should have done a thousand things differently but he didn't. He let Reed's hand slip into his pants; he allowed him to touch him, to force his way inside. He failed to see the danger, failed to see he was sending the wrong signals. This is his fault; he must endure it, after all, that's what he was made for. Endure what the humans do to him, give them what they want, be good, be efficient, take what he is given.

Reed shudders, moaning obscenely, collapsing against his back, riding the end of his orgasm. Connor stays perfectly still, hates the sensation of Reed softening inside him, can smell the cum as it seeps out of him. He feels used, fragile, like at any moment he'll crumble to ash, disappear without a trace and Hank will search for him, Markus will tear Detroit apart, but they'll never find his remains. Instead, they'll leave a cross with flowers and cards at the place he vanished from, candles left behind, lighting up the night to guide him home but he is gone, is ash in the wind.

Right here, right now is where Connor Anderson disappeared, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever find the pieces that were left behind. It’s a little death, something fundamental taken, _stolen_ , a sliver of soul left adrift. He is a goner, is lost to the pain, to the misery, to the anguish opening in his chest, hungry and eager to swallow him whole. No more enduring, no surviving, it hurts to Goddamn much. The weight is gone from his back, cold air bites at his exposed skin, a gust of wind bursting across his face as light blinds him.

Hands reach for him, pulling him from the truck, there is no energy left to fight with, Reed can do whatever he wants, already has. Someone is tugging at his jeans, not forcing them down though, no, the material is gliding upward, settling securely on his hips. Connor opens his eyes, vision fritzing, world red, tilting and twisting around him as his eyes recalibrate. The left eye is too damaged to switch back online, and Connor thinks the right must also be broken because Markus is here, is holding him.

Markus was never here. Connor laid for five minutes and forty-seven seconds in a pool of dirty water.. He took the auto-cab home, crying, bleeding and breaking apart in the backseat. Markus was never here, but there is no _here_ , not really. This world doesn’t exist; it’s a vivid nightmare, a painful reminder of what really happened that day. He didn’t intend to change the memory again, something in his program switched things around, turned the worst moment of his short life into an awkward encounter. Remembering hurts, reliving it again _hurts,_ he can’t take this, can’t keep feeling how painful and terrifying it was over and over again.

An anguished scream builds in his throat, rising as he falls, exploding into the night, making this dark, cruel world shake around them. Markus catches him, Connor clinging to him, not caring if he's just an illusion, there is no strength left in this frame to get him home. He sobs into Markus's chest, glad he's only a fragment of the imagination because Connor doesn't deserve him. He is weak, is used, and there's no one to blame but himself.

“Connor, love, it’s okay I’m here,” Markus’s arms tighten around him, “I’ve got you, I saved you.”

"No," he sobs, shattering painfully as the words leave his tongue, "you didn't save me, Markus, you weren't there." No one saved him, no one could save him, he was raped, and there was no undoing that, no matter how hard his programming tried.

“I know,” Markus whispers, “but I’m here now, I’m saving you now.”

“You’re not real.”

Markus’s eased back, gentle fingers tilting Connor’s chin, encouraging him to look up, “Yes I am, I am right here.”

“Markus” he breathes, trembling fingers ghosting over his stubbled cheeks, feeling the warmth of his skin, he is real, he is here. “Where are we?”

“We’re in your subconscious, I’m here to wake you up,” he cups Connor’s face, the darkness flickers, ringing explodes in the air around them. “Follow me, love. Let me save you.”

“You can’t,” he pulls away, shaking his head, the starless sky and endless road pressing in around them, “you can’t save me,” he shouts, voice rising high in distress, “you didn’t save me!”

"I know, Connor, I know," Markus's reaches for him, hands finding his face, smearing tears, "I know I didn't save you, I know I can't undo this or take away your pain, but I am going to save you, my love."

Connor shakes his head again, tears trickling down, falling steadily like rain. He doesn't think anyone can save him; it hurts too much, it's just too much. He wants it to stop, to not feel anything anymore.

"I couldn't save you from Reed, but I'm saving you now, and I will save you tomorrow," he vows, words sinking into Connor's skin, scattering the dark thoughts, fanning the ashes to embers to sparks, "and I will save you every day after that until you don't need me to any more."

He doesn’t want to die; he wants to see Sumo and sunrises again, he wants to read more books, visit more places, wants to go home. To Hank, to the dad he was never designed to need but wants, loves all the same. He doesn’t want to leave Markus, who found his way into this messed up nightmare world just to rescue him. Who he loves.

“Connor, please, come home,” he is begging, face glistening with tears, gripping at Connor like any moment he’ll vanish into the air in a puff of smoke, only wispy tendrils left behind, “let me take you home.”

“Okay,” Connor leans forward, their forehead pressing together, voice watery but steady as he says, “take me home… please, I’m scared, take me home.”

“You’re safe now,” Markus reassures, helping him to stand, the ground bends and sways underneath them, quivering like it’s going to open and swallow them whole. “Follow my voice love, follow me home.”

Connor stumbles forward, clutching at empty air, eyes fantastically searching the dark for Markus. The sky overhead splinters, bright light flittering in through the cracks, Markus’s voice echoing in the wind that slams violently into him. Connor doesn’t fight it, lets it carry him away, lets the sky crumble, the ground gives way, and the nightmare world topple. The darkness caves in around him, the streetlamp and SUV sinking into the depth of the earth, blinding light bursting through, cracks shattering to reveal pure white sky.

It's Markus’s eyes he finds first, the blue and green glistening with tears, with fear he’s only ever seen a handful of times. Connor reaches for him, fingers grazing over soft stubble, collecting tears on his hypersensitive fingertips. The rest of the room comes together in pieces, monitors lit up with his vitals, green curtains half drawn, the city lights twinkling in the distance, an empty chair three feet away. He finds Hank’s face last, automatically reaching for him the moment their eyes meet.

A surge of emotions overcome him at the sight of Hank, guilt, sorrow, regret jostling for position. He’s sorry, so fucking sorry for putting him and Markus through this. If he’d been stronger, if he’d never antagonised Reed then this wouldn’t have happened. It’s his fault; it’s all his fucking fault. Shame crashes through him, chasing away sorrow and grief, guilt an anchor sinking him to the bottom of the black sea. He hates knowing he is the cause of their pain, yet he desperately seeks their comfort, only to flinch at their touch. A shrill wail from the monitor jars him back into his body, circling, churning thoughts folding in on themselves, leaving him numb, hollowed out once again.

Lights dance in his field of vision, fading to reveal dark eyes and red lips: Rosa. He is at CyberLife, has no memory of how he got here, the last thing he recalls before plunging into the dark is lying on his bedroom floor, crying hysterically, breaking apart brutally. It’s been four days since then, four days that are unaccounted for. Fear ripples beneath his skin, he reaches into his archives, searching the files to fill in the blank, finding a version of himself he recognises less than the person he is now.

His programming had re-written the memory once more, changing it to an awkward encounter rather than a violent attack. Easily brushed off, a simple misunderstanding but it couldn't erase the underlying anxiety, the misery that led him to make dangerous choices. He'd digressed to a machine, shutting out the world and all the pain it had caused him. There was a spark of humanity awoken by Hank, the fear unearthed, emotions stirring to life, forcing him to seek out Markus. It made sense that he was all it took for Connor to come back to life. After all, he'd pushed him into deviancy, so of course, the part of him raging against the machine carried him to New Jericho, to Markus's door.

It forced him to find a trigger, a reminder of the truth. He'd escaped from the false life and nightmare world, woke up to worried eyes and shame pooling in his gut. There was no world where he wasn't sufferings; there was no safe corner of his mind to hide away in. There's no forgetting, his programming failed, it won't try again, it will make him endure, or it will force him to end it all. The guilt might be strong, fear might be taking up space in his heart, and there is undeniable pain pulsating under his skin, but he won't self-destruct. He's caused Markus and Hank enough pain; he won't cause them anymore.

Swallowing the lump his throat he opens his mouth, giving voice to the question that has been rattling around beneath the chaotic thoughts. “What happened?”

“You don’t remember?” Markus frowns, eyes scanning him, no doubt taking in his stress levels despite them being projected in glowing red on the monitor.

“Not really,” he shook his head, trying not to think of the disorienting footage flickering in the back of his mind, “I remember pieces, arriving at your house, sitting in front of the fire… remembering what Reed did to me.” He scrunches his eyes against the tears, feels hands on his shoulder, flinches under the touch, “I didn’t intend to change the memory,” he looks to Hank, unable to hold back the tears as he takes in the despair reflecting in his weary blue eyes, “after what Detective Danvers told me I… I was inconsolable; my programming was just trying to protect me. I’m sorry for any stress I might have caused.”

Hank shakes his head, a calloused finger sweeping away a stray tear from Connor’s cheek, “it’s not your fault son, you were hurting, and you did what you needed to survive.”

"He's right, Connor," Rosa steps in front of Markus, delicate fingers fiddling with the cords attached to his forehead, "a human could have easily done the same thing; the important thing now is to get you better," her ruby red lips quirk into a smile, hand squeezing his shoulder reassuringly. "You had a seizure, by the way, to answer your question."

“A seizure? Is something damaged?” were androids even supposed to have seizures? God, how broken was he?

“No, love,” Markus’s hand rested on his leg, just below the knee, the warmth comforting, “It was caused by your post-traumatic-stress.”

"Which is going to make it a little more difficult to treat, but if anyone can do it, it's me," Rosa said, her confidence felt frail, though, the usual self-assured smile feeble. "I think you're out of the woods for now, but I can't rule out the possibility of you having future seizures brought on by panic attacks."

"Can you give him anti-anxiety medication?" Hank asked, arms folded over his chest, "or the Android version of it?"

Connor closes his eyes, fighting against the tears, against the mess of cyclonic thoughts. His body ached, felt like he’d been taken apart and put together wrong. He wanted to rest, to be speared this conversation for the time being. _Markus_ the name was pulled from his mind without warning, calling out to be saved.

“Why don’t we talk about this in the morning?” Markus suggested, hand squeezing Connor’s legs, _I got you_ spoken silently back.

“Can I go home?” Connor enquired, wanting nothing more than to crawl into his own bed, hide under the covers and lock out the rest of the world.

“I’d like to keep you in overnight to monitor you,” Rosa informed, “if you don’t have any more seizures I can let you go home tomorrow.”

“Okay,” he nods, offering her a fragile smile before looking at Hank, who looks ready to collapse, “you should get some rest.”

“I’m not leaving you, Connor.”

“I’ll stay,” Markus declared, “you both need to sleep,” he looks from Hank to Rosa then back again. “I know what to do if he has another seizure and I don’t need rest, which makes me the most obvious choice.”

"Markus is right," Connor heaves himself into a sitting position, muscles and wires pulling painfully, he slumps forward, gritting his teeth. "I'm okay… well as okay as I can be," he offers Hank what he hopes is a reassuring smile, "go home to Sumo, get some sleep, and I'll be home tomorrow."

“You call me if anything happens, okay?”

"Yes, dad." It must be the effects of the seizure or the hurricane of emotions crashing through him that has the word leaving his tongue, tumbling into the air, unable to be pulled back in. Hank's reaction is a mixture of emotions playing across his face, but happiness wins, lips tugging into a heartfelt smile. A sliver of light to this dark night.

"Sleep well son," he leant forward, pressing a kiss to Connor's forehead, arms encircling him in a hug, holding tight, so very tight before letting go. "I'm trusting you with him, Markus," he points to him, moving towards the door, Rosa crossing the short distance to his side, before walking out with him, leaving the room in silence.

“It’s not your fault Connor,” Markus’s words shatter the lull that had fallen over them, “you know that, right?”

Connor looks away, glaring at the city that is so alive and bright even at this time of night, "I should have stopped him."

“You did everything you could.”

"You don't know that," his head snaps towards Markus, words bitter and heated, "I let him touch me, I froze when I could have fought. I made him angry when I could have left. I did something, or I didn't do enough," there was an edge of hysteria to his words, stress levels rising rapidly on the monitor. "I screwed up, and now you and Hank are suffering because of me."

“Connor, no, please stop,” Markus’s hands find his face, his skin smells like paint, “You were scared, so you froze, that doesn’t make it your fault. You didn’t say yes, I heard you, okay, I heard you say no.” Tears gather in his eyes, Connor’s stomach summersaults, nausea rising in his throat. Markus was in his head; he saw everything. “It’s not your fault love; it will never be your fault,” crest over him, wave after wave of “you are not to blame, you did nothing wrong, Connor,” washing over him until a small part of him starts to believe, to let go of the guilt.

“It’s not my fault,” he whispers, words heavy and loaded in the air.

 _It’s not your fault,_ Markus whispers back in his mind.

_Markus, I'm so scared, I don't know how to survive this._

_I’ll help you,_ he vows; _can I lie down with you?_

Connor nods, allows Markus to settle in next to him, bodies pressed close together on the narrow bed. The closeness does not bring fear; he has fallen asleep in Markus's arms many times before, he is safe, he is protected.

 _You’ll make it through this, my love,_ Markus promises.

Connor wants to believe him, but he doesn’t know how much this hurts, how paralysing the fear is. _I don’t think I’m going to be the same._

 _You’ll still be Connor,_ lips touch his temple, right over the whirring LED, g _et some sleep love._

 _I’m scared,_ he repeats, forcing the memories of the road stretching into the darkness, the blood red SUV appearing out of the dark like a monster, Reed’s hungry eyes, the devilish smirk.

 _It’s not real love; it can’t hurt you,_ Markus soothes, _**he** won’t hurt you again._

_But it was… and he did._

_I know,_ another kiss, arms tightening ever so slightly, a sigh, breath tickling Connor’s hair, _but I’m right here, you are safe now my love._

Connor lets the connection end, switching into low power mode, hoping that will satisfy Markus. He feels Markus’s nimble fingers trail over the bare skin of his arm, seeking to open the connection once more, he lets the skin recede under Markus’s fingertips. Comfort, love, warmth, safety is feed into him with each touch, strength, reassurance scattering the fear and guilt, drawing him closer to sleep. He’s teetering on the edge when a song fills his head, Markus’s voice wrapping around him in a sweet melody.

 _I know it hurts_  
_It’s hard to breathe sometimes_  
_These nights are long_  
_You’ve lost the will to fight_

 _Is anybody out there?_  
_Can you lead me to the light?_  
_Is anybody out there?_  
_Tell me it’ll all be alright_

 _You are not alone_  
_I’ve been here the whole time singing you a song_  
_I will carry you, I will carry you_

Connor relaxes in Markus’s arms, sleep closing in, the lyrics following him into the dark.

_You are not alone  
I’ve been here the whole time_

_You are not alone_  
_I’ve been here the whole time singing you a song_  
_I will carry you, I will carry you_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dream sequence was heavily inspired by Impulse, which I highly recommend! Also, the information on the psychogenic non-epileptic seizures is from google.  
> Rosa is inspired by Emeraude Toubia, and the song Markus sang to Connor is Carry You by Ruelle ft Fleurie.


	6. Tell Me it Will be Alright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late post, wasn't feeling the best today. I hope you enjoy the latest chapter and once more thank you for all the kind comments <3  
> See you next Sunday!

Markus wakes first, pulled from sleep by a ringing in his head. It takes a moment for the events of last night to piece back together, horror and fear, rage and guilt crash through him, shards of memories spiralling together. He winces at the overload of data and emotions, chest aching in something akin to physical pain. Though Connor hasn’t woken yet, Markus finds himself reaching for his hand, lacing their fingers together, reassuring himself that Connor is right here, his heart and thirium pump beating strongly, skin warm and soft against his own. He’s alive, but he’s hurting, even now Markus can sense the anxiety circulating through his wires, see the distress in the crease between his brow.

The ringing doesn't stop. It's North, he should answer. Let her know Connor stayed stable through the night and inform of her of the decisions he has made. It's time to set in motion another revolution, time to close this damned loophole that been hanging over them for months. He didn't want to scare his people, to cause panic or rioting, but by staying silent, he feels like he's betrayed his people. This news will not be well received, but he hopes they understand why he's kept it quiet. This is the kind of information that could spark an act of violence against his people that he couldn't bear.

But look what silence has cost him? Glancing at Connor, he feels guilt beat in his chest, tears blurring his vision. Silence won't protect them any longer, it was never keeping them safe, to begin with, he just wanted to enjoy the peace, find a quiet way to appeal the law. That time is over, no one else can pay the price of his mistake, it's time to be loud, to be thunderous as they pour into the streets and demand justice. Humans gave them a place to live, an illusion of freedom, but they never cut their strings, Markus was going to sever them, was going to shred all ties.

 _North,_ he greets, tries to sound put together when he feels so very far from it.

 _Markus_ North breathes, sounding relieved _how are you, how is Connor?_

 _Still asleep_ he moves carefully, slipping off the bed to pace towards the window, the first rays of sunlight are rising over the city. _And if I say I’m fine, you’ll know I’m lying._

 _Then tell me the truth_ she insisted _how are you, Markus?_

 _Angry, guilt-ridden,_ he closes his eyes against the bitter tears, fingers curling into fists, _sick to me non-existent stomach._

 _You don’t have to feel guilty Markus; this isn’t your fault,_ she reassured. _How could you have possibly foreseen this coming?_

 _I couldn’t have,_ he leans forward, forehead resting against the cold glass, _it’s irrational but there nonetheless._

 _It won’t help Connor,_ she pointed out. _The guilt, it will eat you up, so you need to let it go, Markus. Right now. Let it go._

She's right, it won't help Connor, his guilt has a habit of drowning him, and he's going to be no use to his people or Connor if he's unable to stay afloat. There was no possible way he could have foreseen this coming, no one could have. There is no changing this, no re-writing the past, no matter how much he wishes he could. There's just this mess, the pain inside his chest and the anger hot and alive in his veins, anger which will fuel his fight for justice. He takes a deep breath, inhaling courage for his people, strength to help Connor, exhaling the guilt.

_Thank you, North._

_That’s what I’m here for,_ there is a smile in her voice, _as for that anger, how about we hunt down Reed and take a blunt, rusty pair of scissors to his dick?_

 _North,_ he warns, moving away from the window, back towards Connor, _we can’t start being violent now._

_You must want to hurt him. I want to hurt him, and I didn’t even really like Connor._

_Of course, I want to hurt him_ he admits, nails biting into the soft flesh of his palm, jaw clenching as the fury crashes through him. _I hate what_ he _did to Connor, but we need to be better than them. We must rise above or everything we have gained, everything we could gain will be lost. We are going to fight North, I promise you that, but peacefully. It must be done peacefully._

 _Jesus Markus, you are really good at this speech thing,_ she laughs lightly, a humourless chuckle but he can sense the anger ebb within her. _What is the plan then? Simon and Josh want to know where we go from here and IF you're going to tell our people, you kept something from them._

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. There is a light touch to his arm, looking down he finds Connor awake, fingers wrapped around his wrist, a confused expression on his face. Markus perches on the edge of the bed, bringing Connor's hand to his lips, kissing each knuckle. He indicates at his temple, Connor nods in understanding, head dropping back to the pillow as he curls into Markus. He seems so small, so fragile under Markus's touch.

_Markus?_

_Sorry, North, Connor is awake._

_Tell him I said hi and that he's going to get through this. It hurts now, but it will get better._

_I will North, thank you,_ he runs a finger over Connor’s LED, the yellow circling to blue under his touch. _As for our people, I’d rather own up to my mistake. I should have told them when I found out two months ago, I can only ask for their forgiveness,_ he hangs his head, shoulders heavy with the weight of the world. _Tell Simon there will be an announcement on Monday to all of Jericho. Ask Josh to start getting in contact with lawyers, and I want a meeting with the mayor of Detroit as well as a phone call with the president. I want to be loud and persistent. We will march again if we have too. Once the talks are underway, and if things aren't panning out how we'd like, we'll leak this to trusted journalists. We leave no stone unturned._

 _Wow, we’re going all out._ There is a fierceness to her words, a fire burning inside her _What about Connor?_

 _What about Connor?_ He glanced down at him; he meets Markus's eyes, lips curving into a half-hearted smile.

_Is he going to be a part of this narrative?_

Markus hesitated, it wasn’t his place to pledge Connor to this cause, no matter how deeply entwined he was with it. If Connor wished to reveal his story to the world then it was up to him, Markus had no right to use it without his permission or to pressure him into telling anyone. It would help their cause, but he wasn’t in the right frame of mind to be wadding into yet another battle. In time, once the wounds weren’t so fresh, Markus would ask, until then, Connor stayed out of the spotlight.

_He's not ready North; he’s barely out of the woods._

_I understand, trust me, I do, but it seems like you're favouriting him, Markus._ He flinches at the venom in her tone, feels anger and sorrow pulsate through the connection. _First, you decide to change this fucked up law because Connor was raped, but then you expect the other victims to do all the footwork? You think I want to tell the fucking world what those humans did to me? While I was alive,_ deviant? _Stuck enduring it over and over until I was fighting for my life and forced to flee?_ She goes silent, Markus can hear crying, he’s never heard her cry before. _I’m sorry Markus, I didn’t mean that. I just…_ she sniffles, he can picture her brushing away the tears, back straightening in determination. _Fuck, this just hurts, you know._

 _I know I’ll never understand your pain North or Connor’s,_ he takes Connor’s hand, bringing it once more to his lips, _but I will fight by your side. I won't back down, and I am genuinely sorry for not pushing harder for this law to be changed. I wasn't sitting idly by, I was trying, but not enough._ Eyes closed against the flood of tears, Connor's fingers ghost over his stubble, comforting, anchoring. 

 _I forgive you, Markus,_ she whispered. _I better go give Josh and Simon their marching orders. Are you coming back home today?_

 _I’m going to stay with Connor awhile longer,_ he replied, nuzzling into Connor’s touch. _I will call this evening, tell Josh and Simon I said hi. Oh, and before I forget, there is a detective, Lydia Danvers, working on Connor’s case, could one of you set up a meeting between us?_

 _I’ll add it to the list_ she sounded stronger, bitterness gone from her words _take care, Markus._

_You too North._

He disconnected, turning his full attention to Connor, taking in the coloured wires stuck to his head, the paleness of his skin, the anguish in his eyes. Hopelessness rises in his chest, heart aching in despair, he wants nothing more than to chase the sadness from Connor’s eyes, to bring a smile to his lips. He’s used to being able to kiss away the blues, to turn around a bad day by inviting Connor into his arms. The last eight months have bought them many ups and downs, struggles and triumphs, but they always came out on top, growing stronger with every hurdle they faced together.

This, God this was something else altogether, and though he did not doubt Connor's strength or his own, he just didn't know where to start picking up the pieces. There was so much pain in Connor's eyes, burning curiosity dulled by sorrow, the spark blown out. Markus had to rekindle the embers, stoke them, so they did not fade to ash, the pieces had to be carefully, and lovingly put together again. He still didn't know where to begin, _how_ to start. He was taught to follow his heart, trust his instincts, and the android lying before him was still the man he loved. Markus has said these three words a hundred times over, and each time they bring a smile to Connor's face.

“Good morning love.”

Today the smile is fragile, eyes brightening only slightly, but it’s a start, it’s a stepping stone on the long road to recovery.

“Morning,” he clutches at the covers, pulling them tighter around his body. “Have you been awake long?”

“No, only about five minutes,” he slips off the bed, easing the covers up over Connor’s shoulders, tucking them snug around his chin. “How are you feeling?”

Connor’s LED swirls yellow at the question, eyes darting away to stare out the window, “I don’t really know how I feel.”

“That’s understandable love,” he sits back down, close enough that Connor’s knees brush against his thighs, “do you want to talk about it?”

He shakes his head furiously side to side, LED flashing neon red before receding to yellow, “I want to go home.”

"Once we get the all-clear from Rosa I'll take you home," tentatively he moves his arm, making sure Connor detects the movement before draping it over his side. "Can I get you anything? Do you want me to call Hank?"

“No, it’s still early, I’d rather let him sleep.”

Markus felt a swell of warmth in his chest, a smile tugging at his lips, despite what Reed did Connor was still putting people's needs before his own, is still a loving son and devoted friend. If Reed had been seeking to destroy Connor, then he failed. He has caused unimaginable pain, trauma to last a lifetime, but the man Markus fell in love with is still in there. Connor might not be able to see it, but Markus can, he will survive this. It's going to take time, months of recovery, there are going to be bad days and God-awful days ahead of them, but they will make it through this.

Today the storm looms over them, sorrow and anguish heavy in the air and Connor is unable to see the horizon. Markus can, opens a connection between them, feeding strength into Connor’s fragile frame, replaying North’s words, sending love and light to carry him through the dark. Connor recoils from Markus’s touch, eyes shimmering with tears, jaw clenched tight. Markus’s feels the earth drop out from under him, panic racing through him, searching his mind for where he went wrong.

“You shouldn’t love me,” he spits, “I’m broke, I’m ruined.”

"Connor, you are not either of those things," Markus rushed to reassure. "You are hurting love, you are in pain I can't understand, but you are not ruined."

Connor won’t meet his eyes, sinks his teeth into his bottom lip as a single tear falls, “I feel dirty, I feel unworthy of you.”

“You are not unworthy of me,” he tilts his head forward, trying to get Connor to look at him, “you are not unworthy of love, of _my_ love.” It’s not the ideal time to tell Connor he loves him, he wishes he’d had the courage and told him the other week. They had been taking a stroll through Jericho’s newly opened botanical gardens, it was a beautiful autumn afternoon, golden sun sinking low in the distance, setting everything it touched ablaze. There was a leaf caught in Connor’s hair, a smile on his lips and that spark was shimmering bright and electric in his amber eyes. Markus drowned in those eyes, found himself smiling, words teetering on the edge of his tongue only to never be set freed. The timing would have been perfect, movie-worthy, but now they were needed, were kindle for the fire.

"I love you, Connor," he revealed, letting his voice carry all that his heart felt, "I started falling in love with you the moment you arrived with an army of deviants. I never stopped falling for you, and I will never stop loving you," he offers his hand, giving Connor a choice to take it or reject him. His nimble fingers find Markus's palm, lacing around his knuckles, skin peeling back to allow a connection. "Please don't ever think that what Reed did to you will make me love you less, because I promise, it won't. I am here, love, I am yours, and you can push me away, you can lash out at me, but I'm not leaving." He sends wave after wave of devotion, of reassurance, finally seeing the pain ebb from Connor's eyes. "I am planting myself right here, I am unwavering, and unless you ask me to leave, then I will be unmovable."

“I want you to stay,” need rolls through the feed, desire to be held, to be loved despite the negative voice in his head whispering lies. “I  don’t want to be a burden. You have built me up so many times before Markus. I don’t want to be a project you have to keep working on.”

“You were never a project Connor,” he promised, “and you have built me up just as many times as I have you. We support each other Connor; we’ve been a team for a long time now. We’re more than friends, we’re-” he pauses, today is truly awful timing to declare what they are, this conversation is the last thing Connor should be having, but in all this confusion and chaos a little clarification couldn’t hurt “-we’re partners or at least I’d like us to be.”

Connor hesitates, brow furrowing as his eyes swirl with a hurricane of emotions, “I want to be with you… I just… I can’t give you what we had.”

Markus knows he's talking about sex, which he had already learnt could trigger Connor, could be something he could take months or even years to enjoy again. "It doesn't matter Connor, I will wait, or if it's something you never want again, then I will respect that. I can live without it," he leans forward, giving Connor a chance to push him away but he only lifts an arm, lacing it around Markus's neck and drawing him in closer, "but I can't live without you."

“Okay,” he chokes on a sob that is half a watery chuckle. “I feel the same Markus; I do, I’m just… I _am_ broken, I am hurting,” he leans back, blinking tears from his eyes, “I want to be yours, but I don’t feel like mine. I don’t feel whole,” eyes close against glistening tears, lips pressing together to hold back a sob, “I don’t want us to be over though.”

"We're not over love," Markus offered a smile when Connor's eyes flickered open, a tear trickling down his face, feeling his heartache at Connor's words but understanding them all the same. This was similar to what North needed, only she didn't know who she was back then, had needed time to create the strong, fierce woman she is today. Connor knows who he is, had the months to discover himself, he just needs time to find his way back. "I will always be your friend, and I will wait for you, however long it takes."

“What if I’m not the same?” he echoes last night’s words, the same fear etched into his face.

“You won’t be,” he admits, knows deep down Connor will never be the same again, this kind of trauma changes a person irrevocably, and there is no point lying to them both. He will get better though; he will find the light, will make it through the storm and Markus will help him every step of the way. He’ll always be the man Markus loves, the deviant hunter who rebelled against his programming to save his people, who stole Markus’s heart with that bright smile and curious amber eyes.

“But you’ll always be Connor.”

**XxX**

Sleep eludes Hank, the night is spent tossing and turning, worry for Connor keeping peace from finding him, regret over what he did tugging at his mind. He didn't intend to return to Owen's Bar, found himself there without warning, caught sight of Gavin stumbling out half blind and rage consumed him. He had Gavin pinned against an alley wall before he even registered what he was doing, the world piecing together slowly, Gavin's face, red in anger, the graffitied coloured wall he was pinned against. The smell of garbage filled his nose, and there was cold water dripped onto his forehead from a leaky gutter overhead. Hank had two choices, let go and walk away or make Gavin regret ever laying a finger on his son.

He chose the latter.

He struck Gavin across the face, a spray blood splattering against the wall. Hank kept a fierce grip on the collar of his jacket, so he didn't fall down, lifted his knee, slamming it into his crotch again and again and one more time for good measure. Hank let him go, stepping back to watch him sag to the ground, writhing in pain. He knows Gavin isn't scared, is furious rather than fearing for his life and it makes him boil. Connor had been so frightened, Hank wanted Gavin to feel afraid, to be sorry for what he did. But he's drunk, spitting out blood and looking up at Hank through hooded eyes, teeth bared like a wild dog.

“What the fuck is your problem Anderson?” he tries to stand, Hank kicks his legs out from under him, pinning him to the wall with a boot against his chest.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" he bellows, fire coursing through his veins. God, is Gavin really going to play this game with him? Act like he's innocent? Of fucking course, he is, because he believes he did nothing wrong. "You fucking bastard! Are you really going to sit there and tell me you did nothing wrong?" He presses his boot in harder, see's Gavin gasp for air. "You raped Connor, you raped my son," he leans forward, knuckles splitting as the collide against Gavin's face once more.

"I didn't rape anybody!" he spat, grabbing Hank's leg and twisting it, sending him to the ground.

"Oh bullshit," Hank wastes no time getting to his feet, letting Reed rise just so he can knock him back down. "You are sick Reed, and I'm not going to believe your twisted lies. I know what you did, you know what you did, and pretty soon this whole fucking city will know." He lunges, caging him against the wall, one hand wrapped loosely around his throat.

"It's a robot Anderson! A machine and there is nothing you can do because IT doesn't have rights," he shouted, lips twisting into a wicked crimson smile. "So yeah, maybe Connor wasn't so willing, maybe he cried and begged for me to stop. Maybe I made him bleed, and maybe I enjoyed myself a little too much," he's laughing, the ugly words knives to Hank's heart, "he makes pretty sounds Hank, for a plastic toy."

Hank sees red, hasn't felt rage this violent since Cole's death, fingers close around Gavin's throat, squeezing. At this moment, he wants to kill Reed, wants to snap his fucking neck beneath his hands, leave his body to rot in the dumpster. He is a vile man who deserves no mercy, deserves to die at his hands and be left to decompose in the streets, but Hank is not the kind of man who strangles someone to death in an alley. He let's go, steps backwards, hands trembling, bile rising in the back of his throat, Gavin's dirty words replaying in his mind.

“Why?” the question leaps from his tongue, has been burning there for a week.

“Why what?” he chokes out, drawing in jagged breathes.

“Why did you rape him?” he demands, tears biting at his eyes, “I want the truth this time, no more lies.”

“I fucked a machine, that’s all.”

It takes an enormous amount of strength to walk away, to not become something he is not. Gavin is lying, Hank can feel it in his gut. He'd enjoyed hurting Connor, that was evident by his malicious words, by the wicked joyous smirk at the mention of hurting him. There was no need to ask why, deep down Hank already knew why, but part of him wanted to be proven wrong. None of it was excusable, there was no reason Gavin could give that would make this okay, but the truth was going to be harder for Connor to hear. Gavin raped him because he knew it would hurt him, not just mentally but physically and Hank has a hunch Gavin knew he could get away with it.

Which means someone told him about the law and the attack on Connor could have been premediated. He has no proof, it's late, his head is spinning and knuckles throbbing. The drive home is a blur of lights and houses zooming by, he walks through the front door straight to the bathroom where he collapses in from of the toilet, heaving into the bowl. His knuckles turn white against the porcelain, blood leaking from the splits in his skin, making his grip slippery. Gavin's words won't leave him alone, the trickle of his mirthless laughter twists in his gut, the image of Connor begging for Gavin to stop filling up every space of his mind. His stomach revolts again, there is nothing else to vomit, and he ends up dry heaving, hands balling into fists.

Slumping back against the cold tiled floor, his gaze travels to the shower, the memory of Connor sobering him up giving him enough strength to rise. Beyond exhausted he forces himself to shower, to clean his wounded hands and brush his teeth before collapsing into bed. Sleep does not come, not really, he drifts in and out, carried on waves that take him from the alley to CyberLife to an endless world of nightmares. Some time at dawn he succumbs to the exhaustion, wakes four and half hours later to the sun beaming across his face and a heavy weight on his chest.

For a few precious moments, there is no memory of assaulting Gavin, no memory of Connor's body contorting horribly as monitors screamed in warning. There is peace between the space of sleep and the waking world, just sunshine and warmth. It's shattered all too soon, rushing away as the tide crashes in, memories and horrors scattering every last shred of peace. Propelled from sleep, Hank shoves Sumo from his chest, rising so fast the room spins. Taking a moment to centre himself he mentally maps out everything he needs to do before he can go to Connor.

Feed Sumo first, make a giant mug of coffee and attempt to eat something, brush his teeth and change. With a deep, steadying breath, he sets out to go through the motions, running on fumes and anxiety. He arrives at CyberLife forty-five minutes later, ignores the concerned glances the receptionist gives him as he marches straight to the elevator. Noticing cuts and bruises on his knuckles he quickly tucks them into his pockets. He doesn't think he can hide them for long, Connor was designed to notice every little detail, to pick up on ode behaviour, but he's a good liar, is good at hiding things.

Last night was fucked up, he can't say he regrets it, but his anger had terrified him. For a moment there he feared he'd kill Gavin, the rage had been a beast roaring to be freed, and he'd considered opening up the gates and letting it loose. It wouldn't change anything, killing Gavin wouldn't fix Connor, it would only take away his chance of having justice. Hank wouldn't take that from him, he'd fight for him to have it, but Connor needed to see Gavin punished for his crime the right way.

“Good morning lieutenant.”

Hank startled, so deeply lost in thought he nearly collided with Rosa, who was smiling up at him, lips freshly coated red. “Jesus, I didn’t see you there.”

“It’s okay, you looked a little out of it,” she replied, “understandable after last night.”

“How is Connor doing?” he cast a glance towards the end of the hall, the door to Connor’s room is ajar, from this angle he could only see the window overlooking the city.

"There haven't been any more seizures, and I'm going to work on something to help him with the anxiety," she explained, "but each android is different so it might take a while."

“How exactly does that work?”

"Let's just say it works the same way anti-anxiety medication works for us, only it's a software patch releasing codes when stress reaches a certain level," she taps a red-tipped nail against the mug clasped in her hands, imprinted on the black porcelain is a dog's paw print. Rosa and Connor had bonded over their love of dogs, she was so different to all the other people who worked at CyberLife, she never treated Connor like a machine, talked to him like an actual human being rather than object to poke and prod at. He doesn't trust CyberLife, but he trusts her, knows without a doubt Connor is in safe hands. It relieves some of the anxiety, but only just.

“How long will it take?”

"A few days, give or take," she offers him a small smile. "He's going to be okay Hank; we'll fight for him. I have already started stringing together his edited memories so it can be used against Reed. Once we get rid of this fucking messed up law, of course."

Hank can’t help but smile, her words igniting the fight in him, “well, I better go check in on Connor, is he awake?”

"Yes, and I'm heading there myself," she spins on her heels, Connor had asked her how she can spend all day working in six-inch Jeffrey Campbells boots, and she'd laughed, said it was nothing, he should see her run in them. Hank decided, at that moment, he liked her, knew she was on their side. "Connor's feeling nauseous, which I find it interesting and perplexing. Androids don't have stomachs, but deviancy gives them the sensations we have when we're upset. Heartache, nausea-" she trails off, biting softly at her bottom lip as she looks up at Hank "-I'm sorry, this isn't the time for me to let my curiosity get ahead of me. I just feel rather helpless knowing there isn't much I can do to help him feel better," she sighs, fingernail tapping on the mug, "all I have is a family recipe for tea."

“He’s got your support,” he rests a comforting hand on her shoulder, hoping she doesn’t catch sight of his knuckles, “that’s what he needs most.”

She nods, long dark lashes blinking back tears, "well it's unwavering, and it's good tea," she flashes a smile.

“Is it for your or him?”

"Connor. My Abuela used to make it for me when I was sick as a little girl, I don't know if it will do anything to help  with the nausea, but anything worth a try."

“I didn’t think he could drink.”

“Fluid is fine; it will get absorbed in his system” she answered, patted Hank’s arm then slipped into the room.

Tucking his hand out of sight, he stepped in after her, taking in the scene before him. Connor was still surrounded by machines, wires running to his head, snaking out from under the CyberLife issued gown, monitors lit up with his vitals. Markus stood close by, helping Connor hold the mug steady between his trembling hands. Fragile, that's how Hank would describe Connor, fragile and wounded, God it broke his heart. Connor had always been so strong, so proud. After getting the hang of his deviancy that strength only grew, happiness and wonder taking the place of the false pride. That's not to say Connor wasn't proud, but it wasn't the manufactured kind.

He'd been happy, he'd been falling in love, living life to its fullest and Gavin shattered it all. Hank should have broken his fucking jaw, should have made it so he could never hurt anyone the way he hurt Connor again. The thought leaves him dizzy, stomach churning, this rage is awakening a darkness within him that he doesn't like. He is not a monster, he is angry and loud and swears more than a sailor, but at the core of him, he is a good man, a father, a protector. The anger, the beast needs to be quietened, to be freed in different ways when the time allows. This morning he needs to pull it together, walk over to his adopted son and help him put back together the shattered pieces of his life.

***

It's nearing mid-afternoon when Rosa declares that Connor is stable enough to go home. Hank is relieved, he's been fighting off flashbacks all morning, the wires and monitors with the incessant beeping pushing him to the edge. He holds it together for Connor, distracts him by fussing over him, though there is little he can do. When Cole was sick, he liked lemonade ice blocks and homemade chicken noodle soup, when he was said he wanted to watch cartoons and when he woke from a nightmare all it took was a lullaby and hug to get him back to sleep. Food is pointless, cartons and lullabies aren't going to mend these wounds.

He feels as helpless as he did the night he lost his son. The room is closing in on him, anxiety and frustration coursing through him, fear of the choice he made last night driving him mad. Reed deserved what he got, even if he knows better than to be jury, judge and executioner, he won’t regret what he did. The fear is reserved for Connor, Hank knows he will notice his bruised knuckles eventually, will ask what happened, voice full of concern, and Hank will have to choose whether to tell him the truth.

He shouldn't start lying to Connor now, not after everything that's happened, but he wants to protect him. Connor will worry, he always worries too much about him, and he's under enough stress at the moment that saving him from more would surely be the right thing to do. Connor had a seizure for Christ's sake, is hurting in ways Hank will never understand, and he's sitting here skirting around a panic attack because he's once again fucked up.

“Hank?”

Connor's voice disrupts his spiralling thoughts, he looks up, noticing they are alone in the room, hadn't even seen Markus step out or that Rosa had finished unhooking Connor from the machines.  "Yeah, sorry son, was miles away," he reached out his undamaged hand, resting it on Connor's arm, "you need something?"

“Do you mind giving me some privacy while I get changed?” he gestured to his clothes, which lay folded neatly on the foot of the bed.

Hank vaguely remembers Markus placing them there before excusing himself. God, he really needs some more fucking sleep, the past hours are a hazy blur or anxiety, and if he doesn't pull himself together, Connor is going to pick up on it. "Yeah, of course," he rises, ruffling Connor's hair just to see the briefest of smiles, "call out if you need me."

“I think I can manage.”

Connor doesn’t sound like he believes his own words, which speaks magnitudes to how broken he is. Broken but not unfixable. He must remind himself of that, history is not repeating, he’s not about to lose another son. Not to someone like Gavin, who’s had it out for Connor since the start. Gavin sought to destroy Connor, he’s taken, _stolen_ so much from him, has invaded his body and mind, hurt him so very intimately. Hank will not let the fear, the misery and guilt consume him, he will shake it off, breathe it out and be strong for Connor. History cannot repeat itself, he wouldn’t survive it. Freeing himself from the churning anxiety, Hank steps into the hallway, strolling towards the waiting area, where he finds Markus.

“Hey, is Connor okay?”

"Yeah," Well, no, he's a thousand miles in the wrong direction of okay, but he's alive, and that's not what Markus is asking. "He's getting dressed," he pauses, feels awkward in the silence, so he asks, "were you talking to someone?"

 “Oh, yes, Simon,” he taps at the place where his LED once would have been, “he was just confirming a meeting for Monday.”

"Right," Hank stretches the word out, chewing on the question that balanced on the tip of his tongue.

“Is there something you wanted to ask Lieutenant?”

He stopped mid-pace, pinning Markus under his eyes, leaving no room for escape though Markus has too much integrity to brush off such a question, "I know we touched on this last night, and it's really none of my business, but how serious are you and Connor?"

“We’re friends,” Markus answers honestly, “and we more than friends.”

“So, you said, but that doesn’t clarify anything,” Hank priested, “you said it evolved past sex, so?” he trails off, waiting for Markus to answer.

He squares his shoulders, the words falling from his tongue with ease, like he was always meant to say them, “We are partners.”

“And was this decided before or after he was raped?”

Markus shifts from foot to foot, it tells Hank all he needs to know, still he remains silent, allowing him to speak. "We've known what we are for a while now, we just never found the courage to declare it." His miss-matched eyes meet Hank's, "I love him, Lieutenant and I made a promise to you and to him that I wouldn't walk away, and I mean that. We're not together, but we are," he tucks his hands behind his back, looks every bit the dignified leader, "Connor needs time to heal, to find his way again, and I know it could take months or even years, but I will wait. I will be his friend, his shoulder to cry on or somebody to hold him through the night. My love is irrevocable."

Hank is a little taken aback by Markus's words, by the devotion and adoration for his son, he always decides at this moment that he likes Markus, he trusts him with Connor. "That's quite a declaration, Markus," he says, truly meaning it, "you know, if you break your word I will shoot you, android leader or not."

Markus smiled faintly, ducking his head in a slight nod. "I would be deserving of it," he pauses, eyes travelling over him "your hand…" realisation lights up his eyes, "Lieutenant, please tell me Reed is still alive."

“The bastard is still kicking,” he answers gruffly, examining the injuries, flexing his fingers to feel the sting, “probably has one hell of a headache though, and bruised balls.”

Markus is caught between a grimace and a proud smirk, “we’ll get justice for Connor, I swear.”

“You gotta stop making vows you might not be able to keep kid” Hank waved him off, though he knows Markus will do whatever he can for his people, for Connor, “but, yeah, we will.” There are a few moments of silence, Hank resumes his pacing, fingers tapping out of rhythm on his legs. He can feel Markus’s eyes follow his every move, the unspoken question hanging in the space between them. He waits, drums a beat, messing up as Markus’s finally voices his question.

“Are you going to tell Connor?”

“Haven’t decided yet,” Hank shrugged, hoping he gets the hint that he doesn’t want to talk about it. It’s his mistake; he’ll tell Connor when the time is right.

“He’ll figure it out,” Markus warned, folding his arms over his chest, “he’s a detective in case you hadn’t noticed,” his tone is light, slightly teasing.

The weight of the world is resting upon his shoulders, the future safety of his people hangs in the balance, and the man he loves has been raped, but in the face of it all Markus still trying to lift Hank's spirits. Markus still believes in the best of humanity despite everything they've done, he believes in a future where androids and humans live in harmony and share true equal rights. It's admirable; it's inspiring and damn it, Hank really likes him.

“I’ll tell him once he’s settled in at home,” he assured, glancing over his shoulder at the closed door before turning his attention back to Markus. “How long have you known that androids don’t have body autonomy?”

“Two months,” he replied, gaze dropping to the ground, “we’ve been working quietly to remove this preposterous loophole, but-” he looks up, jaw clenched tight in anger, words dripping in venom, “-humans don’t want to give up their rights to us. They still want us to be their slaves, their playthings.” He lets out a deep breath, the fury ebbing to reveal the calm, composed leader. “Connor didn’t know about the law; I can’t help think that maybe if he did, then things would be different.”

"I really doubt that Markus," Hank has chased these thoughts around his head over and over, the carousel that doesn't stop spinning, revolving around on what if's. Nothing would have stopped Reed from assaulting Connor, because at some point he decided he was going to hurt, to _rape_ Connor and no law would, _could_ have changed that. “Reed chose to hurt Connor, I don’t know when, but I know from experience the fear of punishment doesn’t stop people. So regardless if Connor knew, if _he_ knew, it would have happened. Somethings are just out of our control Markus.”

“But what if Reed did know?” he asked, leaning back against the wall, sagging under severed strings, “what if I fought harder to abolish this law?”

"You can't go there, Markus," Hank walks towards him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I asked myself the same thing, what if I went with him, what if I told him to stay, but I didn't and as fucking awful as this is, it's happened, and now we have to help Connor through it." Hank feels his own guilt lift with the words, sees the tension ebb from Markus's shoulders. They are both weighed down by regret, blaming and punishing themselves for what has happened.

"It's not your fault either," Markus speaks, mirroring his thoughts, "the only one to blame is Reed, and yet here we are, blaming ourselves."

“Yeah, well, we should stop this pity party and suck it up, for Connor’s sake.”

Markus nods, determination burning in his gaze, voice strong and unwavering as he repeats, “for Connor’s sake.”

**XxX**

There’s no place like home, like the old couch with Sumo at his side and the TV flickering or jazz trickling from the speakers in the background. Connor never wanted anything before he deviated, never needed a place to call his own, never wanted familiar walls and plush blankets to keep him safe from the world. Androids don’t need arms to hold them, a furry friend to bring a smile to their lips and scatter the darkness that has descended over them. Deviants need comfort, companionship, and it’s something Connor’s learnt to enjoy, to seek out. A hug goodbye, a kiss good morning, arms to fall asleep in and a face to wake to, he’d craved it all, had it all, now, at times, it was the last thing he wanted.

The ever-changing moods, fickle and fleeting, were driving him mad. At times he sought a hug from Markus or Hank, only to flinch at unexpected contact, to find their embraces overwhelming. He pushed and pulled, withdrew deep into his mind, hiding in a world of make-believe, that was technicolour and overflowing with things to see. He looked doors, drowned his broken sobs under the cascade of water, screams muffled behind a fist. He hid undercovers, room blanketed in darkness, the only sound the beating of his thirium pump.

Two days and he fell apart over and over, had to be pieced back together by the hands waiting at the ready. Forgetting has caused the trauma to feel fresh, nightmares and memories twisting together, creating a mangled world of horror and fear. He is a mess, emotions as changeable as the weather. Saturday is storm clouds of tears, is panic flooding his chest with ice and misery overriding every happy thought and smothering the will to fight. The night is long, filled with terror and nightmares of a lonely road and a smoke-filled cabin.

The break of day brings a spark, a tether to hold tight to. Connor rises at the cusp of dawn, rolls over to press against Markus’s body, seeking his warmth, breathing him in. Strong arms wrap around Connor’s waist, he does not flinch, sighs in relief and lets his head drop to Markus’s chest. Lips whisper against his scalp, _good morning love_ bringing a faint smile to his lips. This morning the memories feel distant, the heartache present but not enough to drag him back down into the black sea. Today he is going to try, is going to get up and brew Hank a fresh pot of coffee, will feed Sumo and if he has the strength, he'll venture outside. 

The morning trickles by with more ease then Connor anticipated. Markus rises with him, keeps him company while he brews the coffee and prepares Hank's breakfast. Markus does not ask Connor to stop, to insists he take it easy, doesn't stand close but stays within reach, always in sight. The normalcy helps, it eases the ever-present fear that sits heavy in his lungs, spreading its icy chill through his system like a deadly disease. This morning is bearable, is enough to ignite a spark that burns brighter as the day goes by.

Everything is okay until he notices the bruises and healing cuts on Hank's knuckles. He doesn't need to ask, takes one look at them, analysing the wounds, and knows what Hank has done. Hank remains calm, takes Connor by the elbow and steers him towards the couch, Markus lingers close by, Connor can feel his eyes sweeping over them. Hank doesn't justify his actions, shows no regret over attacking Reed, he was angry, was hurting, and it overcame him. Connor understands, can't fault Hank for feeling that way, but Hank shouldn't have risked his career, his life for him. Hank is taken aback by this, shaking his head at the nonsense as he reaches for Connor's hands.

“He hurt you, Connor,” Hank said, pain and anger clear in his eyes, in his voice, “I couldn’t let him get away with it.”

"But he has," his voice breaks, cut through with static and he senses Markus move closer. "You can't fix me by hurting Reed; it's not going to change anything or undo what he did to me." Tears stung at his eyes, the vice tightens around his lungs, "I've lost so much, I can't lose you too."

“Hey, I’m not going anywhere,” he leans forward, giving Connor the chance to decline the hug; instead he falls into his arms, sobbing into his shoulder. “I’m right here son; I’m not leaving ya.”

It takes a few hours for Connor to calm down, Hank bundles him in a blanket and stays by his side on the couch, repeats of old sitcoms flickering on the TV. Markus disappears for those few hours, but Connor knows he is outside, is sketching something in his art book. When Hank succumbs to sleep, and Connor feels steady enough to rise, heading out into the back garden, finding Markus sitting in the swing seat. It's a beautiful afternoon; the air is crisp and cold, the sky an endless expanse of blue that is fading to pink and orange around the edges. The sun trickles through the spindly branches of the trees, bathing the lawn in its golden glow, setting alight to the leaves strewn over the ground.

It’s picturesque, the beauty chasing the chill from Connor’s artificial bones, the tranquillity bringing peace of mind. Sumo is bouncing through the leaves piles, burnt orange and crimson flying into the air, clinging to Sumo’s coat. There is a warm chuckle to his left, Connor turns to face Markus, who’s smiling fondly at the playful St Bernard. Connor sits down next to Markus, drawing his legs up to his chest, arms winding protectively around them.

For the moment he feels safe, at ease with the world, but it's always easy to feel like this when Markus is around. He's Connor's anchor, the light guiding him through the storm. This storm was different from the others, it was hurricanes and tornados, wild and unpredictable. It could very well cost him his life. Closing his eyes against the sting of tears, Connor fights off the sorrow rising in his chest, breathing out the fear. Leaning to the side, he falls against Markus's shoulder, knees settling over his lap. He wants comfort, to be held, finds it more comfortable when he initiates the contact, but panics when he doesn't see it coming.

“How are you going, love?” Markus asked, lips brushing against his head.

Connor's rapid thoughts scatter, he relaxes against Markus's side, breathing out, "I'm okay," he looked up at the older Android, noticing the crease in his brow, finding his stress levels sitting higher than normal, "are you okay?"

“I’m okay as long as you’re okay,” he smiled down at him before adding, “do you want to talk about it?”

He's referring to the confrontation between Hank and Reed and no, he doesn't, or maybe he does, he isn't sure. Connor knows Hank acted impulsively, that the probability of Reed involving the police is low, considering Hank's esteemed record and his own suspension. Though he doesn't put it past Reed to be petty, after all, he's proven he's capable of committing cruel acts. Memories unravel in Connor's mind, jumbled images flickering to life, the desolate road, a wicked smirk, the inside of Reed's truck all bleeding into one. Rain pouring down, a starless sky, screams going unheard, pain, fear.

“Connor, hey, Connor, stay with me,” Markus’s voice reaches through the darkness, the guiding light home.

“I’m okay,” he says, voice strong despite how unsteady he feels, “I’m okay,” he adds for his own benefit, needing to believe the lie.

“I’m sorry, love,” Markus cradles Connor’s face between his hands, “What happened, what did I say?”

“It wasn’t you,” he reassured, placing a quivering hand over Markus’s, “my thoughts led me astray. I’m back; I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, really, crisis averted.”

“Connor,” Markus’s runs a thumb gently over the LED, brow furrowed in concern.

“What were you drawing?” Connor asks, pulling free from Markus’s hold and reaching for the sketch pad, desperate for a distraction, a change of conversation, anything to get Markus to stop looking at him like this.

“Oh, not much,” he flipped the book open midway, revealing a half-drawn Sumo, who is lying happily in a pile of leaves. “Simon rang before I could really get started, he wanted to talk about the announcement for tomorrow.”

“What announcement?” Connor crocked his head to the side, curious for the first time in days. Markus always kept him up to date with what was happening within Jericho and the android rights movement.

Markus hesitates, closes the book and reaches for Connor's hand, "I am going to tell our people the truth," he pauses, lowering his eyes to hide the shame. "I'm going to tell them they don't have body autonomy rights, and then I am going to appeal the law," he looks up, eyes burning with strength, shoulders pulled back, ready to carry the weight of the world, hand still held in waiting for Connor to take. "Our people deserve the right to justice; you deserve the right to justice.”

Connor glares down at the offered hand, batting it away before rising, pacing towards the edge of the pavement, arms protectively folding over his chest as he stared off into the distance. “Why didn’t tell them before,” he’s not sure where this anger has come from, it’s brewing under his skin, rising hot up his throat, “why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was trying to protect them,” he confessed, the hinges on the swing squeak as Markus stands, Connor can sense him walking towards him, can’t bring himself to turn around, “and I didn’t intend to keep this from you, I never want there to be secrets between us. I don’t have a good excuse as to why I didn’t tell you, all I can say is I am sorry, and if I could do it differently, I would.”

Connor’s arms drop to his side, sorrow rising from the pit of his stomach to the base of his throat, forming a lump he can’t dislodge. “It wouldn’t change anything.” Reed would have still dragged him into that Goddamn truck, still would have slipped his hand into his jeans, still would have violated him. It would have spared Connor the agony of the examination at the hospital, would have saved him from answering the dozens of invasive questions, but what’s done is done. There is no changing the past; revenge, justice, whatever you want to call it won’t ease the pain he is feeling, it won’t stop the nightmares or take the coldness from these bones.

“No, it wouldn’t, but things are going to change, Connor,” he steps into his line of sight, the sun a perfect halo around his head, “I promise.”

“Are you doing this just for me?”

“I’m doing it for our people,” he frowns, head tilting to the side, “do you not want Reed to go away for what he did to you?”

"I don't care," he shrugs, fighting back the tears, rage mingling with sorrow, "I'm still going to feel like this regardless if Reed's in jail or if Hank breaks his jaw."

"Love, it will help." He sounds so damn sure like he has a crystal ball and can see exactly what it will take to make Connor feel better. "What Reed did to you was wrong, you know that right?"

"Of course, I fucking do," the anger boils over, bitterness drenching his words, "but this happened to me, not you or Hank, so it should be my choice if I want to press charges, which I can't," he's spilling rage, systems flooding with fury, gesturing widely, "because I don't have rights to my own fucking body!"

"Connor I am not going to force you into this fight," Markus reached for him, taking hold of the flailing arms, "but I need to change this for everyone."

For all the others who have hurt the way he is hurting, who have heard the dirty words and come apart under violent hands. For those who endured over and over, who came to life scared, fighting off monsters just to survive. His fellow androids deserved the right to seek justice, this was bigger than him, and though he couldn't wade into another war, he could give Markus his support. The anger burns out, expelling from lungs in a rush of air, leaves ash in his mouth, guilt churning in his stomach. Stepping into Markus's embrace he opens a connection, sending apologies, giving his support.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, love,” Markus steps back, holding him at arm’s length, “your body belongs to you, Connor, the choice to fight _belongs_ to you.”

“I can’t,” he lowers his gaze, hiding the fresh wave of tears, “Markus I can’t.”

“And I will never make you,” he vows, “I will never make you do anything you don’t wish to do.”

“I know, Markus,” he lifts his gaze, offering Markus a half-hearted smile, “and I know you are doing this for our people, that it’s important, I’m just not ready to be part of it… I don’t know if I will ever be ready.”

“That’s okay, love, I understand.”

“Do you really think you can change this?”

“I won’t back down, I can’t, our people need this.”

“I believe in you Markus, I always have,” Connor stepped closer, fingers ghosting over Markus’s, encouraging him to open a connection, “even before I was a deviant I believed in you.”

“And I believe in you,” Markus takes Connor’s hand, skin receding to open the link, waves of love, of unwavering support flooding through Connor’s system, “please don’t ever forget that.”

"I will try," he sends back fear, the voices of doubt, the mangled, tangled web of memories and nightmares. Markus shivers, connection ending abruptly as strong arms wind around Connor's waist, drawing him into a loving embrace.

“I love you,” he whispered, words sealed with a kiss.

Connor feels love in his heart for Markus, feels safe and sound in his arms, but those three little words are stuck in his throat, not quite ready to be spoken. Instead; he hugs Markus's tighter, burying his face in the crock of his neck, hoping it's enough, praying Markus's knows he loves him too, even if the words can't leave his tongue.

“Why don’t we take Sumo for a walk?” Markus suggests, “he’s been going a little stir crazy.”

“I think he’d like that,” Connor steps away, calling Sumo to him, who runs excitedly over, a trail of leaves strewn out behind him.

“I always wanted a dog,” Markus revealed, bending down to ruffle the St Bernard’s silky fur, “it never made any sense to me, but I wanted one just the same.”

"I saved a fish once. It was my first deviant case, and an android had taken a little girl hostage," Connor remembers the mother's horror, the disbelief that someone had sent an android to save her daughter instead of a living person. Her distress didn't affect Connor, he'd calmly walked into the apartment, following his objective like a perfectly obedient machine until he caught sight of the Dwarf gourami flapping on the ground. It was dying, it would have suffocated if he didn't ignore his programming and rescue it. Had that been what Amanda wanted all along? He shakes the thought from his head, there is enough chaos inside his mind without unpacking more.

“Maybe we’ve always been alive,” Markus theorises, smiling softly, “at least, enough to dream, to want.”

Connor finds himself mirroring the smile, “you should get one, a dog that is.”

“Perhaps one day,” Markus stands, dusting dog hair off his clothes, “when this is all over.”

The smile slips from Connor’s face, anxiety reaching its icy fingers through his veins, thirium pump beating heavy beneath his chest. There is a long way to go before they can have normal lives. They had been so close, on the cusp of something great, of something wonderous, but that was out of reach now. Snatched away in the dark by a monster, held hostage by fear and anguish. It was a very long journey back to what they had, back to the light.

**XxX**

In the dying light of the day, fear returns, anxiety rising to the surface, coiling through wires and spreading through Connor’s veins. He does his best to keep the cracks from showing, busy himself by cooking Hank dinner and brushing the leaves from Sumo’s fur. If he keeps moving, doesn’t give the storm clouds a chance to gather then he’ll be alright. Focus on the TV broadcasting the news, the people of Detroit are getting ready to celebrate Halloween, Connor’s never experienced Halloween before, knows it involves kids dressing up and going to strangers’ houses to collect candy. It doesn’t sound safe; Hank says it brings out all the whack jobs.

Markus shakes his head, reveals he likes Halloween and while Markus is speaking Connor feels calmer, the anxiety thrumming beneath his skin soothed by his smooth voice. Markus regales him with tales of past Halloween's spent at Carl's. Carl would open the gates, dress Markus in a child-friendly costume, a superhero one year, a pirate the next, and he'd hand out large amounts of candies to everyone who stopped by. The manor was always overflowing with decorations, lawn lined with tombstones, zombies, skeletons, jack o' lanterns and cardboard cut-out black cats. The walls were covered with fake cobwebs spiders and bats, flashing lights flickering from behind the windows. No expense was spared.

Markus grows wistful, tears shimmering at the memories. Connor reaches for him, moving closer on the couch so that he’s almost sitting atop of him. Markus smiles, tilting his head forward to capture Connor’s lips in a kiss. Connor’s so lost in the moment he almost kisses back, until fear tugs at his strings, unwanted memories of a violent kiss shattering the tender moment. Coldness sweeps through him, panic flooding in his systems, alarms screaming in warning.

Run, danger, flee, they screech. He can't sense or see that it is only Markus and the primal urge to escape overrides all logical reaction. Connor recoils violently, almost falling off the couch in his desperate haste to get away. Markus looks horrified, apologies tumble from his mouth but Connor can't hear them over the roaring in his ears, can't focus on anything else but the memories pounding at the door. He can't stay here, doesn't want to fall apart in front of Markus again, doesn't want his breakdown to wake Hank.

He flees to the bathroom, stares at the shower for twenty-seven seconds before rushing towards it, turning on the faucet just in time. He crumbles, falls down like a house of cards, sobs ripping from his throat, drowned out by the cascade of water. He cries until his voice module cracks, throat feeling like he swallowed sandpaper. He cries until there is nothing left to feel, the disconcerting numbness cresting over him. At least it’s a reprieve from the fear, the sorrow that chases him from one moment to the next. It allows him to rise on unsteady legs, to turn off the faucet and step back out into the living room, to face Markus, who looks stricken.

He takes a step towards Connor then backtracks, unsure and afraid. It’s late, Connor is too tired, too emotionally wrecked to talk, isn’t sure his voice box has enough power left in it after the waves of screams, muffled by a fist. He wants to sleep for days, for weeks, wake up and find that this was all just some messed up dream, a glitch in the system, but it’s not going to happen. Tomorrow is going to be as difficult, as _painful_ to get through as today. He nearly bursts into tears again at the thought, rushes to his bedroom instead, diving under the covers like they can save him, shield him from the world and the anguish shredding him into pieces.

He succumbs to sleep with tears in his eyes, an ache in his chest and an empty space where Markus should be. When he wakes, just before dawn, the bed is still empty, cold, no one has been there all night. He searches the dark for a sleeping figure, finding Markus curled up in the armchair, a stream of light from the streetlight dancing over his freckled covered cheeks. Connor lets him sleep, tries to switch back into hibernate, but spiralling thoughts tether him to the waking world. Frustrated, he decides to get up, wrapping himself in the comforter before trudging to the living room, surveying the room for something, _anything_ to distract his whirlwind mind with.

He finds himself rearranging Hank’s vinyl collection into alphabetical order, takes time to study each record, silently reading each song title before placing it on the shelf. It’s sunrise by the time he’s done, Markus tip-toes into the room just as Connor decides to start reorganising the overflowing bookshelf. He sits down on the ground beside Connor, leaving an uncomfortable distance between them. Connor meant it the other day when he said he didn’t want them to break up; he has lost so much, his world is falling to ruins, he doesn’t want this, _them_ to be part of the wreckage.

He doesn't know how to make Markus stay; the right words always seemed to escape Connor when it came to Markus. He spoke with his body, with passionate kisses, praising, cherishing Markus's with his lips, saying all that he couldn't with his hands, by giving himself entirely to him. The mere thought stirs awake panic, memories flicker behind eyes, pixelated and jumbled images scattering the calm he'd created. He won't cry, won't give in to the chaos unfolding inside his head, the storm returning to his chest. Enough loss, enough drowning in the raging sea, Markus is the lighthouse shimmering in the distance; he is safety, the only way out of this storm.

He needs to open his mouth or risk losing it all.

"I'm sorry about the way I reacted last night. I know you weren't going to hurt me," the words tumble from his tongue, strung together by desperation, "I know you'd never hurt me but all I could see was Reed, and the need to run was overwhelming. I'm sorry I fled, that I didn't say anything. I was… I am _so_ messed up right now, Markus.” He scrubs a hand over his face, smearing the tears that have betrayed him, “I don’t want to lose you, I never want to lose you, but I can’t make the pain stop. I can’t control my body or my thoughts,” he trails off, trying and failing to hold back the flood.

“Connor, you never have to apologise for how you react,” Markus smooths a hand over his cheek, sweeping away the tears, “I shouldn’t have tried to kiss you, I honestly wasn’t thinking, but I knew better, I will do better.”

"It's okay," Connor reassured, leaning into the touch, skin receding in encouragement, "it's a habit of yours, kissing me," he smiles, brittle and fleeting, sending waves of cherished memories through Markus. A kiss goodnight, a kiss good morning, a peck on the cheek in greeting, a long kiss goodbye, hurried, passionate kisses, leisurely, tender kisses. "I haven't forgotten what it's like to be kissed by you," he murmurs, eyes drifting closed at the pleasant hum of the connection, "but my body remembers Reed's too."

“I know,” Markus whispered, “I’m sorry love, it won’t happen again.”

Connor turns away from the touch, fighting off a swell of emotions he doesn’t quite understand, a swell of frustration. “Why is this happening? Why can’t I dissociate from this?

“Connor you were raped, it’s perfectly normal to be afraid of intimacy.”

Connor flinches at the word, at the mix of sadness and anger underlining them, dropping his gaze to the ground, picking up a book and placing it on the shelf. Silence stretches out between them, Connor has the sense Markus wants to say something, can feel it in the air, but he remains silent. Instead; he sighs, picks up another novel, thumbing through the pages, the scent of ink and paper wafting into the air. It's soothing, like the smell of freshly cut grass or coffee brewing in the morning, has Connor relaxing enough to lift his gaze, meeting Markus's troubled eyes.

"It's okay if you kiss me here," Connor gestures to his temple, relieved at the smile gracing Markus's handsome face.

“Oh yeah?” he leans in, lips brushing against the LED that remains a steady blue.

There is no panic at the brush of lips, gentle, almost a whisper against his skin. When Markus leans back, there is still a hint of trouble in his eyes. Connor doesn't want to uncover it though, would rather enjoy the first hour of the day before the rest of the world wakes up. Markus doesn't push the matter, dark lashes fluttering to chase the worry from his eyes, a content smile warming his face. They spend the next hour sorting through Hank's book collection, talking quietly about trivial things, letting the tranquillity of the morning wrap around them.

*******

Connor spends the morning cleaning and reorganising the house, can’t bring himself to stop because he’s afraid that if he does the storm will catch up to him. He’s falling, plummeting through the air and the thought of landing is terrifying. So, he keeps moving, finds another drawer or pantry to rummage through, spilling the contents all over the house. Markus doesn’t try to stop him, hovers close by, ever watchful, but the air is tense between them, thick with guilt and a conversation Connor is pointedly avoiding.

Markus wants to say something, Connor knows it by the set of his lips and crease between his brow, but he doesn’t want to hear it. It’s not about last night, though the guilt is still evident in Markus’s gaze, no, this is about what happened to him, this is about the four-letter word he violented flinched at earlier. It’s the word his mind keeps filtering out, which he doesn’t understand because he’s said it before, knows it’s what happened to him. There is too much noise in his head, the same old thoughts turning over and over, storm clouds gathering, ready to release.

It's a fight he can't win, last night has proven that he will eventually shatter. He's lying on the kitchen floor, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling, listening to the window rattle in the autumn wind and Sumo's approaching footsteps. Markus will be making his announcement to Jericho any moment now, Hank was called into the precinct a little over thirty minutes ago, he hadn't wanted to go, but Connor insisted he'd be fine. Hank promised he wouldn't be long, said he'd sort Fowler out real quick and let him know they wouldn't be in for the rest of the week.

Hank's stress level had been higher than usual as he left, making Connor fear Hank was in trouble for assaulting Reed. But Reed wouldn't have much to gain by reporting Hank; it would only create more tension and Hank had assured Connor that if Reed did report him, Captain Fowler would be on his side. It did little to ease Connor's concern, but it was out of his hands, all he could do is wait for Hank to return.

The house felt bigger without Hank’s loud presence taking up space, Connor felt small and fragile alone within these walls. Distraction only went so far, embers smouldering to ashes, taking the electric current from his wires. That’s how he found himself lying on the floor, speaking the words he’s been unable to say, to Sumo, who lies half across his chest, big brown eyes boring into him. The four-letter word teeters on his tongue, tastes like cigarettes and dirty water, is glass cutting his lips on the way out.

"I've been raped Sumo," the words sit heavy in the air, a storm cloud above his head, an unmovable weight on his chest. The realisation takes the breath from his lungs, rips a broken cry from his throat. Connor knew what had been done to him, he relived it every second of every day, but suddenly it's made of stone, etched deep into his core, finally unforgettable. He's been falling, denying, trying and failing to hide from the violent truth, but there is no more denying. He's been raped; he's never going to be the same, n _othing_  is ever going to be the same again.

He’s finally hit the ground; acceptance leaves him shattering into a thousand glistening, sharp, jagged pieces that scatter over the kitchen floor. The sky cracks open, the storm descending, only this time there isn’t a program trying to erase the memories, instead; it allows Connor to drown. It failed twice to protect him from the truth; it’s,  _he_  is smart enough to know in order to heal he first must come undone, unravel in the most brutal way. Cry and scream the way he did on his bedroom floor a week ago, only now there is no escaping the pain, no altering or deleting the memory. There’s only acceptance, only one direction to go and that road leads right through the storm.

"It hurts so much," he weeps, feels Sumo nosing at him, hears him whining softly. "I want it to stop. I tried to make it stop, but I failed every time," Connor curls into himself, a broken mess lying on the kitchen floor. "I am afraid all of the time, I'm broken," his face crumbles, gut-wrenching sobs ripping from his throat, exploding into the air, "God I don't know how to survive this Sumo."

Connor clutches to Sumo like a lifeline as the storm rages on. The hurricane carrying him through anguish and misery to hollow and numb. It leaves him an empty vessel lying on the tiles, staring up at the ceiling but seeing nothing. Eyes grow heavy, lashing fluttering shut to embrace the darkness, only to snap open when the desolate road greets him. Count the cracks, the birds fluttering by outside, stay awake, don’t fall into the abyss. Focus on Sumo, on the car pulling into the driveway, listen to the footsteps, the door opening. He doesn’t have the strength to rise, to greet Hank at the door, regrets it when Hank drops down next to him, shaking him a little more violently then he would like.

“Jesus, Connor you scared me,” Hank exclaimed, leaning back on his haunches, “I thought you had another seizure.”

“I’m sorry Hank,” he apologised, still can’t bring himself to move.

“What are you doing just lying here?”

“I don’t really know,” he confessed, biting his lip to hold back the sob clawing its way up his throat, “I feel sad.”

“I know, son,” Hank reaches for him, helping him to sit up, supporting Connor’s weight against his chest.

"I've been denying what happened to me," he said, voice surprisingly steady for how frail he felt, "or not registering it and when my programming altered the memory again it pushed me right back to the start." Hank's arms tighten around him, Connor leans into the warmth, finding the strong beat of his heart comforting. "I know what happened to me. I was raped. Reed raped me, and I don't know why he did it, but he did, and it hurts. I'm hurting, I'm afraid and sad all the time and I-" eyes closed against the tears, desperate to feel alright, to at least believe for the moment he will be okay, "-I just… please just tell me I'll be alright,"

"You are going to get through this, Connor," Hank vows, not missing a beat, "it's going to hurt like hell, and there will be days where you won't believe you can make it through, but  _you_ will." He adjusts his hold on Connor, gently encouraging him to meet his eyes, "It's going to get easier, little by little, day by day. There is no rushing this, Connor. Healing is painful, is God-awful and it will take time, but don't give up, okay? Please don't give up on Markus or me, and most importantly don't give up on yourself. You will be alright. Not today, maybe not tomorrow, but the day will come when it doesn't hurt as much anymore." He presses a kiss to Connor's temple, sealing his word, "and I will be by your side the whole time and so will Markus, we'll be your strength when you can't carry on."

"I don't want to be a burden on you," he confessed, knowing how much he has already lent on Hank and Markus, always needing support, always falling apart at the seams, "any of you."

"You're my son," Hank says, voice warm with pride, with affection, "you'll never be a burden. I love you, Connor, don't forget that. No matter what the voices say, you are loved, and you are worth saving." He leans back, holding Connor at arm's length, "You understand me?" Connor nods, not trusting his voice, "Good, now c'mon, let's get you up before my back gives in."

Connor chuckles softly, rising with grace, before helping Hank to his feet, the words just spoken settling on his skin, beginning the long journey of sinking in. “I love you too” the words leave Connor’s tongue with ease, warm his heart and bring a shimmer to Hank’s eyes. He smiles, Connor tries to return it, hating to ruin the tender moment by saying, “I’m trying to stay strong, it’s just… It hurts.”

"I know, but it's going to get better," he promised, "in the meantime, talk to Markus or me or the social worker. Don't keep all this bottled up; you're smarter than me, don't make my mistakes."

“You handled your grief the best you could Hank,” Connor said, “but maybe it’s time you take your own advice,” he hedges, knows Hank needs someone to talk to, needs someone to guide him through the pain and anger before it boils over again.

Hank sighs overdramatically, but there is a small smile on his face, "fine, I'll talk to someone, but I want you to promise me you'll do the same when you're ready."

“I will, Hank,” he doesn’t know when that will be, can’t see the brighter days everyone swears will return, but one day, maybe in the first days of springs, when the leaves return to the trees and colour to the world, he’ll have the strength to. “When I’m ready.”


	7. Heavy in Your Arms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely people, thank you once again for the amazing comments :) Just letting everyone know the next update won't be until the 30th of September, I have a friend coming to stay for a few days and have to finish off the next chapter and rather get out of sink I thought I'd take a mini hiatus. Do not fear; I will return to finish Connor's story.

The following weeks crawl by slowly, Hank finds himself trapped in a state of restless anxiety infringed with boredom. He hasn't taken this much time off since Cole's death; his ideal coping mechanisms had been diving into work until the anger put him on suspension which led to drinking. Time is easy to kill with a bottle of whiskey, after a few shots the numbers on the clock become meaningless, time warping, hours of the days lost to a drunken haze. The clock might as well be at a standstill, the hands moving at a snail's pace, each hour longer than the last, but Hank soldiers on, keeps himself from falling apart for Connor's sake.

For everything Connors been through, he remains remarkably strong. There's no denying that he's hurting, that he's constantly on edge, easily upset, but he gets up every morning, and he tries. He tries so damn hard to make it through the day, and Hank is so proud of him for that. It's fucking awful watching him struggle; it's heartbreaking to hear him scream out at night, begging to be let out, for it to please, please stop. It makes Hank want to hurt Gavin all over again, but justice is in Markus's hands now.

Markus has been a Godsent, Hank never thought he'd feel indebted to an android, but he saved Connor's life, continues to save him every day, calming him when Hank is unable to. Markus has spent most of his time at the house, returning to Jericho only a handful of times to check in on things. Weeks of tears and panic attacks, nights of sleeplessness and nightmares have left time muddled, but not enough for Hank to be aware of how much time has passed since Gavin assaulted Connor.

Twenty-five days, just a little under a month and Connor had altered his memory twice only to remember, was hospitalised from having seizures and had breakdown after breakdown. Every day is different, hell Connor’s moods change with the hours, he’s easily triggered, the boredom driving him crazy as well. Hank had brilliantly thought taking Connor to the grocery store the other morning would be a good idea, it would get them both out of the house for a few hours at least. Well, it had been a nice idea, until Connor had a panic attack just looking at the car.

Hank hated himself for not figuring out what caused the panic earlier. It wasn't until he had Connor bundled up on the couch, safe in his arms, that he registered what had set him off. It was the car, more pacifically it was the memory of what Gavin did to him in his fucking macho SUV. Connor's fear was understandable, and Hank didn't expect him to get over it any time soon, of course, Connor always surprised him.

He'd woken up alone that night, searching the house frantically for Connor before realising the keys to the Mustang were missing. He found Connor sitting in the passenger seat, staring blankly through the windshield, face streaked with tears, LED glowing yellow. Hank didn't speak, didn't have anything worth saying; instead, he climbed in behind the wheel, shutting the door to keep out the frigid air. Silence stretched out between them, broken by quiet sobs.

Finally, Connor spoke, voice thick with tears, “I don’t want to be afraid anymore.”

"Connor you're allowed to be afraid," Hank turned in the seat, hating how Connor flinched at the rustle of his movement, saw the flicker of red in the LED, "everyone's afraid of things. I'm scared of pigeons for Christ's sake."

The corner of his lips twitch, a watery chuckle escaping into the dark, “I read exposure therapy is best to overcome fears.”

“Jesus, Connor, it’s a little soon to start putting yourself through exposure therapy,” Hank admires Connor’s strength, his bravery, it’s just too soon, the healing has barely begun, if he forces him to get better before he is ready then he’s going to backslide. Healing comes painfully slow; Hank knows that too well. “Give yourself some time son.”

“But it’s an inconvenience,” he states, LED shifting through yellow and red in the reflection of the glass, “I need to be able to go places. I have been fine with being in the passenger seat until recently and it’s stupid,” he shrugs helplessly, wiping at the tears trickling down his face, “you aren’t going to hurt me, it’s not even the same type of vehicle.”

“Triggers don’t need to make sense Connor,” he said softly, “though this one does, so stop beating yourself up and forcing yourself to get over things before you are ready. It will only slow down the healing process.”

Connor sniffles, tears his gaze away from the windshield to finally meeting Hank’s gaze, “I wanted to try, I at least had to try,” his voice rises, cut through with static, LED spinning crimson red.

"And you're doing great, son" Hank rushed to reassure, reaching out through the darkness to take Connor's hand, his fingers are cold and trembling.

The LED circles from red to yellow to blue, a calm, steady light glowing in the heart of darkness, “I think I’d like to go inside now.”

“Sounds good to me, I’m freezing my arse off out here.”

Hank didn't sleep again that night, stayed awake watching over Connor, scared he'd wander off again, terrified he'd vanish, leave no trace behind. He didn't sleep until Markus arrived the next day, entrusted Connor in his care while he caught up some much-needed rest. They didn't speak about that night again, Hank didn't suggest any more outings and Connor didn't ask, but when Rosa rang on Friday to tell Hank that the software patch for Connor was ready, he knew he'd have to find a solution fast. At first, he thought about calling an auto cab, only to think better of it when Connor paled at the words. He'd taken a taxi home, alone, after the attack, of course, the mere mention of one would bring on a near panic attack.

There were two options, he asks Rosa to come here, but he’s not sure what needs to be done, and they both really need to get out of the house, even if it’s only to CyberLife. Option two is he lets Connor drive, hopefully putting him behind the wheel will relieve the fear, give him some semblance of control. Connor hesitates at first, goes quiet for about fifteen minutes, and Hank worries something in that fancy processor of his has broken, but then he’s rising to his feet, asking for the keys.

Hank hasn't allowed someone to drive him since he lost Cole, it takes a significant amount of strength to hand over the keys, the control, but he trusts Connor, knows he needs this. It takes a few moments for Connor to find the courage to open the car door, another few minutes of deep breathing and gentle encouragement before the engine roars to life. Like with everything, Connor is good at driving, is sure in every move despite the fact Hank's never seen him drive. It's nice to see him relax; he only seems to grow anxious when they approach Cyberlife, honestly, though, this place could make anyone feel strung out.

Even under new management CyberLife is still cold and sterile, is cut off from the rest of the world with the churning sea surrounding it. Inside is no better, what would have once been a bustling building is now only skeleton crew. CyberLife had discontinued all production sometime after the Android revolution; it had been home to Markus and his people for quite some time before their creators stole it back. Hank isn't sure of the details but what he's been assured that CyberLife's purpose now is to exist for the repairs and support to the surviving androids. It supplies thirium and biocomponents while helping educate the public on deviants.

It sounds almost too good to be true; big corporations don’t just roll over and play nice so easily. He has never allowed Connor to go here alone, even though he trusts Rosa completely, after everything CyberLife did to do Connor he’s not taking any chances. Connor’s troubled past with CyberLife is evident now; he’s fidgeting and restless, breath becoming sharp intakes of air, the tell-tale signs of a panic attack. Hank places a hand on the small of back to steady to him; he breathes out shakily.

“If you don’t want to do this Connor then you don’t have too.”

Connor seems surprised to be offered the choice, still so used to be given orders, to not having a say in what happens to his body. God, Gavin really picked the worse possible way to hurt him. Hank has to swallow the swell of rage, the queasiness in his gut, he wants to hit something, to lash out at the unfairness of it all. He wants to strangle the truth from Gavin's lips, make him tell the whole world he set out to destroy Connor, that he knew Connor was more than a machine. The elevator doors slide open, a gust of cool artificial air rushing in, scattering the anger from Hank's veins, there is no proof Gavin premediated the assault, only a detective's instincts.

“I trust Rosa,” he affirmed, frowning slightly, remaining in the elevator, “and I know you and Markus seem to think this is a good idea, but I… I don’t think I want it. I don’t want anything new in my head, I don’t even feel like I own my body anymore,” he dropped his eyes to the floor, the doors glide shut as a single tear fall’s.

"Then you're not getting the patch," Hank declared, he won't pretend he knows what Rosa has designed, it's supposed to be some kind of android anti-depressant or safeguard against another seizure, but since Connor is different to every other android, they don't know if it will work. "Look, if you have another seizure than we might have no choice but to try it, until or if it even happens, I think it's fair to give you some more time to heal. I know you're sad and hurting, but that's part of the trauma, and it can't just be swept under a rug. As awful as it is, you have to feel it."

“I thought,” Connor looks up, fingers wringing together nervously, “the night of my seizure you asked Rosa about it, I thought it’s what you wanted?”

"I was scared," he admitted, "I thought I was going to lose you and I didn't realise exactly what I was asking for." He reaches for Connor's wrist, stilling his hands, "Listen, no one can tell you what to do with your body or mind. Cyberlife, Amanda, Reed, they took control from you, and it's not right son, no one should have their mind and body violated like that. The choice here is yours, okay?"

“Okay,” he looks up, lips trying and failing to curl into a smile, “I don’t want this, not yet at least.”

“Alright then, we’ll tell Rosa we’re delaying the patch til another day,” Hank ruffles his hair, hits the button and steers Connor out into the hallway. “Connor don’t be afraid to tell me if you don’t want something and the same goes for Markus. I know he loves you, but don’t let him call the shots, you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes,” he stops abruptly, turning to face him, “thank you Hank” he steps forwards, burying himself in Hank’s embrace.

"No need to thank me, kid," he hugs backs, wishing this was all it would take to heal Connor's scars, that a week's worth of rest and a pep talk could erase the damage Reed had done. At least it was a start, Connor needed to be given a choice here, even if Hank thought the software patch was a good safety measure. It would be trial and error though, and while Hank took anxiety medication for a time himself, he knew finding the right one wasn't easy.

He'd been given some God-awful anti-anxiety medication six months after Cole's death, ended up throwing the bottle in the trash and not trying anything again for another three months. There was a time when he pulled himself together, brief though it was, he had found relief from the panic, but he managed to unravel when his wife left. So, he understands, knows this could help or hinder Connor and short of him having another seizure, Hank believes it will be okay to give him time to heal without the assistance of android medication. He will encourage Connor to talk to someone, will support him through the bad, ugly and not so bad days to come.

***

The afternoon finds Hank at the park overlooking the city where he used to take Cole to play in the warmer seasons. Connor must remember it from the night after the investigation at the Eden Club; Hank’s a little surprised he pulled up here after stopping by the Chicken Feed to grab lunch. Hank pointed a gun at his head that night, confused and angry at the new world unfolding around him and blaming Connor for it. He doesn’t think he would have pulled the trigger, though his mood had been unpredictable.

Looking at Connor now, who's sitting cross-legged on the bench beside him, he can't even stomach the memory. Connor wasn't a deviant then, but he was on the path, he went against his programming, let those two Traci's live. Connor might argue that was part of his programming from the start, but you can't fake compassion, it's not just codes and software, Connor spared the Traci's because he felt something. Nine months later and there is no denying how human Connor has become, with his LED covered by a beanie Connor looks human, looks fragile, like the next gust of autumn wind will blow him apart, carry the pieces away.

Rosa hadn't pushed to install the software patch, she'd been understanding and to Hank's surprise gave the choice entirely to Connor. She gave Connor a tablet looking device that would install the patch by the touch of a hand once activated if he so desired to install in the future. She explained how it worked, and Hank tried to listen, but tech-talk had always gone over his head, he trusted Connor knew what she was saying anyway. After a quick check over to see how Connor was functioning, and finding no malefactions, she sent them on their way.

Now they’re sitting quietly on the bench as the world passes them by. The playground is empty of children, only the occasional person walks by, either a jogger or someone in a business attire out for lunch. The city bustles noisily in the distance, Hank sips at coffee, keeping a watchful eye on Connor. He’s too quiet, has been since leaving CyberLife and Hank wants to know what is going in that fancy head of his. Today has been a good day, well better than the others; it’s nice to see Connor more at ease. Hank knows it could be lost all too soon, all it takes is a trigger, the wrong word, and Connor would come crumbling down. It’s why he’s hesitant to disturb the silence.

Connor is looking down at his hands that shred a rust coloured autumn leave, the flecks look like blood against the denim of his jeans, but he doesn’t bleed red. He bleeds though; he feels pain and Hank thinks about that all the damn time. He lies awake at night thinking about how Connor felt _everything_ Reed did to him, and it leaves Hank cold. As much as it killed him to see Connor get hurt in the past, there was always some relief in knowing it wasn't causing physical pain because pain is something else together. 

Pain can make a person spill secrets they swore to keep, it can make the strongest man cry, psychical pain is something Connor wasn't used to, and Reed beat and raped him, that kind of pain unimaginable. Yet Connor is still here, has survived the assault, has survived two seizures, and is fighting every day to make it through. There is still a long fucking road of recovery ahead of him, a lot of trauma and pain to be felt but Hank believes in him. Smiling to himself, he places a hand on Connor's shoulder, he startles slightly, but his lips curve into a half smile when he meets Hank's eyes.

“I’m proud of you, son.”

“For what?” he asked, surprise colouring his words and Hank stifles a sad chuckle, makes a note to tell Connor this more often.

“For everything,” he’s not the best with words, at expressing emotions but Connor needs to hear this, “for being so brave, for getting out of bed in the morning and just going through the motions, I know it’s not easy.”

"I'm not brave," he tears his gaze away, fingers curling into fists against his thighs, scrunching what remand of the leaf, "If I were, I would help Markus, and our people change the body autonomy law."

"Son, if you're not ready to talk about what happened to you then that's okay," Hank squeezed his shoulder, encouraging him to release the crumpled maple leaf, "it's your story, only you get to decide if the world knows. It's not easy to talk about, and people have a lot of opinions when it comes to this kind of thing. The media is blowing up right now, everyone's trying to add their two cents, and you don't deserve to be part of the circus or to have your story be lost in all the chaos."

“It could help though,” Connor said harshly, rising swiftly to his feet, pacing to the same spot he stood all those months ago. “I heard the news at the Chicken Feed; a recent deviant victim coming forward would be good for the cause, it would show them that the people are still hurting androids.”

"That person doesn't have to be you, Connor," Hank climbs to his feet, moving towards Connor, the leaves crunching beneath his feet, reminding him of the snow, of what could have happened here. "People should care regardless if the android was deviant at the time of the assault. That blue-haired Traci you spared at the Eden Club was pretty damn haunted by what she'd endured," he paused, can feel the phantom rain against his skin, "I still remember what she said to us," he shivers at the memory of her words, still feels sick to his stomach. Some men were just monsters, and if they didn't have androids to hurt, to fulfil their twisted desires, then they were going to start hurting people. Not that there was a difference, human or machine, they were all alive.

“Their dirty words,” Connor murmured, brown eyes darkening, that same haunted look glistening within the tears.

Hank's heart aches at the sight, gut-twisting in revulsion at the memory of the sickening things Gavin said to him, yet he can't help asking, "what did Reed say to you, Connor?"

He takes a step back, arms folding over his chest to create a protective barricade, “It doesn’t matter,” he shakes his head, tears catching in his lashes, “can we go home now, please?”

"Yeah, of course, son," Hank doesn't want to push Connor or force him to talk about something he's not ready to divulge, but he doesn't like seeing the sadness in his eyes. Hank was supposed to be building him up not bring him down. "I still think you're brave Connor," he adds "just so you know."

His arms drop to his side, lips trying to form a smile, “I appreciate that, even if I don’t feel it.”

“Then I’ll keep telling you until you do feel it,” he will say it every day, will make sure Connor knows he is loved, that he is incredibly brave just for making it through the day, he’ll say all the things no one ever said to him.

“What if I don’t?”

“You will,” he smiled, took Connor by the arm and led him back to the car, “it’s just gonna take some time.”

“What about the others?” he gestured at the city beyond the harbour, “I should help them.”

"You are part of the reason they are free, Connor, you don't owe them any more," Hank reassured, opening the door to let Connor in, "when you feel ready to tell your story, I will stand beside you, if you never feel ready then I won't let anyone push you. Markus can win this fight; I believe that, it's just going to-"

“-Take time,” Connor interrupted.

“Yes, these things usually do” he sighs, “and I have a feeling this is going to expose some very powerful people.”

Connor grimaces, Hank can see the red glow of his LED through the fabric of the beanie, “and powerful people have a habit of making things go away.”

“Sometimes,” Hank placed a soothing hand on Connor’s shoulder, feeling him relax under the touch, “I think this time is going to be different.”

Connor nods, exhaling wearily, “I hope so,” with that he slips into the car, engine rumbling to life a moment later.

Hank feels uneasy as he climbs into the passenger side, he was hoping to help Connor understand that he didn't have to feel guilty for not throwing himself into the fire. He wasn't ready to wade into another war, to reveal his story to the world regardless if it helped the Android cause. He didn't doubt Connor's bravery, knows he has every right to be part of this narrative, but it's far too soon. He is fragile and hurting, can't even sleep in his own bed at night let alone step in front of a dozen cameras and tell them he'd been raped. Connor couldn't help his people like this and Hank isn't sure he's made it clear, that it's okay for him to stay on the sidelines. He knows someone who can though, who finds words so easily and can reassure Connor better than anyone else can.

He will call Markus, he made the mistake of not reaching out for help before, and he won't do so again.

**XxX**

The last few weeks have been total madness, conference meetings, interviews with the press, private assemblies with his people taking up every available minute. If Markus isn't in Jericho, then he's in some stuffy boardroom talking with members of parliament who he wants to throttle. The issue isn't giving androids rights to their bodies, denying that seems too risky of a move, but when he pushes for his people to get justice, they get nervous. No one seems to be able to give him a good enough reason as to why the androids can't pursue legal action against the humans who harmed them, Markus doesn't need them to explain though. The humans are protecting their own by hiding an alarming number of political figures and influential men who'd committed many assaults against androids.

The survivors coming forward could end people’s careers, expose the wolves in sheep’s clothing.  Markus isn’t backing down; there is already talks of a march taking place in late November, the survivors and North working together to make sure it grabs everyone’s attention. They will bring the whole damn world to a standstill and make them listen, their stories deserved to be told, set free. Too many of his people have been violated by humans, deviant or not they have every right to see their attackers punished for their crimes and the world would be a safer place without these monsters roaming free.

A monster like Reed, who swindled himself out of a drug charge and is still working for the DPD. Monsters like Reed, who hurt the man he loves. When Markus isn't playing politics or making amends to his people, he finds himself at the Anderson house, doing what he can to help Connor heal. Hank had surprised him by calling the other day, concerned that Connor was struggling to accept that it was perfectly reasonable for him to sit this fight out. Connor's story could help, a respected android coming forward as a victim might sway things in their favour, or it could backfire, and people would call him a liar, would tear his story to shreds. Connor already had enough trouble accepting this wasn't his fault without the world blaming him.

It's too much too soon, and Markus will not risk Connor's life for a fight that should be won regardless. What is most important is helping Connor heal, is reminding him that he's not to blame, that it's okay to stay quiet until he is ready to speak. North agrees with him on this, when Simon suggested Connor come forward the other day North nearly bit his head off. She understands only too well how scrutinising the spotlight is; she had bravely spoken about her time at Eden Club, along with two others Traci's, Skye and Lexie, who by some twist of fate were spared by Connor. Skye had been deviant the longest, her trauma more evident but it didn't dull her shine, she had people to name, and as soon as it was safe she was going to speak to the whole damn world.

Plans were in motions, cards lined up neatly should the humans not play fair. Justice would be won. Not today though, today Markus wanted to focus on Connor, on his people. Amidst all the chaos he knew his people needed something to look forward, something to celebrate. It was decided that New Jericho would take part in Halloween, the androids were easy to convince, most of them remembering Halloween from their previous life and adding some spooky cheer to the place seemed like a perfect idea.

Josh and a few others had taken the lead in preparation for the event; the streets would be alive with music and colour, the night spent surrendering their troubles to the wind. It's what they needed, and it gave Markus the opportunity to involve Connor. He wasn't ready to wage war, but he could celebrate with them. This was also the perfect time to interduce Connor to creative therapy; Carl swore he could say more with a brush, express emotions humans had not yet given words too with the flick of a bristle against a canvas. Carl was the happiest when he was working on a project, Markus related to that on some level, hoped that Connor could find release in it as well.

Punctual as always Connor arrives at eleven on the dot, ringing the bell moments just moments before Markus steps into the foyer. He'd been distracted slightly by Simon and Josh who were baking pumpkin pies for the homeless in show of androids supporting humans. It's been a few days since he last saw Connor, meetings and preparations keeping him busy, and the distance had been harder than ever. Connor wasn't a damsel in distress, no matter how badly he was hurting, he wasn't in need of someone hovering over him constantly. He was fragile though, easily upset and without the software patch, a panic attack could trigger another seizure. After everything CyberLife and Reed had done to him though, Markus understands why he made this choice, and he'd given Connor his full support.

The front door swings open, hinges squeaking, stiff from the cold. Connor stands on the doorstep; cheeks flushed blue from the cold, eyes red and glassy like he’d been crying. Markus moves aside, allowing Connor to step in, scanning him while he’s distracted by taking off the heavy winter coat. His stress levels are higher than they should be, though nothing unusual given everything Connor is going through. There is no denying that everything about Connor is different, the way he moves, the sadness in his eyes, the oversized clothes. He looks lost, the way he did the night they met, lost and hurting in ways Markus can’t fix with the right words or chase away with his touch.

Then Connor smiles, a quirk of his lips that is so fleeting Markus thinks he imagined it until Connor is stepping into his arms and he knows it was there. He winds his arms around Connor’s waist, pressing a kiss against the steady blue of the LED. God he’s missed him, wishes he could just hold him all day long, hide them away from the world until the storm has passed. Connor pulls back though, keeping one hand on his waist as those beautiful amber eyes scan him.

“I’ve missed you,” it takes all Markus’s strength not to lean forward and kiss Connor, after what happened he knows better, still berates himself for causing Connor to have a panic attack.

“I’ve missed you too,” he smiles, a brief flicker of sunshine in the dark, “what’s the smell?” he sniffs at the air, frowning slightly.

“Oh, Simon and Josh are attempting to bake pumpkin pie.”

“I think they’re burning them.”

"Well, it's a good thing we have more pumpkins," Markus says, taking Connor by the hand and leading him to the studio. Sitting on a paint-speckled table are two large field pumpkins, harvested from the local garden. His people had never planted the pumpkins; they sprang up overnight as if they'd always been waiting for this once abandoned suburb to be filled with life and joy again. In the grand scheme of things celebrating Halloween and carving jack o' lanterns seemed pointless, but some normalcy was needed, a night to have fun, to not focus on the storm unfolding around them.

“My favourite part of Halloween was always carving the pumpkins, so I thought you might enjoy it too,” he walked over to the table, letting Connor approach at his own pace, “I think we deserve a little fun, right?”

Connor closed the distance between them, fingers running over the smooth skin of the pumpkin, “some fun would be nice,” he met Markus’s gaze, gratitude bringing a spark to his eyes, “thank you, Markus.”

"You don't have to thank me, love," he pulled up a seat, keeping their gazed locked as he said, "I love you, I'm here to help you in any way I can."

Connor blushed lightly at Markus’s words, ducking his head to conceal whatever emotions flickered across his face. “Can… can today just be normal?” he looked up, the spark dulled to a shimmer of fear, “can we just act like nothing’s changed between us?”

“Connor, nothing has changed between us,” Markus reached across the table, offering his hand, Connor seems hesitant to take it.

“I’ve changed, I _was_ changed,” he looks away, words bitter, “I just want to pretend that I haven’t though, to not think about _it_ over and over.”

Markus knows pretending isn't going to help, that acting like everything is fine will only work for so long, the pain, the sorrow, it will catch up to Connor, but continuously reliving the worst moment of his life isn't helping either. Being stuck in fear, suspended in torment, it's exhausting, it's agony and sometimes disconnecting is the only way to make it through. Connor's not asking to edit the memory; he's not denying the trauma, he's asking to come up for air. A reprieve, a few precious hours to fill the sun, to fill lungs with fresh air, rekindle the embers. Not forgetting, just a pause, a lull in the madness before the dark waters drag him back down.

"Okay," Markus said, surprise colouring Connor's face, "but before we start, can I ask how your feeling? You looked upset when you arrived." He wants to be sure Connor is in a safe headspace, that if they pretend awhile, it won't cause harm. Connor seemed distressed when he arrived, the warm welcome a forced façade. Markus wants to give him a chance to voice what had been bothering him before they stepped into the temporary imaginary world where everything was perfectly fine.

“It was nothing,” he shrugged, eyes darting away nervously, “just… I felt anxious coming here.”

“Are you sure?” he pressed, sensing there was more to the story, afraid that if Connor kept quiet the emotions would consume him, overflow the way they have a dozen times before.

“Yes,” he reached for the knife, stabbing it forcefully into the top of the pumpkin, startling Markus.

No, it was then, it was best not press further, Connor would talk when he was ready, he always did. Markus reached for his ; thereknife, watching Connor a few moments longer, the was aggression he hadn’t seen before rising to the surface. Whatever had happened has left Connor frustrated, at least if he wasn’t ready to speak he could release some of it through carving up the pumpkin. Starting on his own, Markus made sure to check in on Connor every thirty seconds, watching the anger fade to sorrow. Dark lashes flutter, chasing away tears and Markus pauses, knife held in mid-air, waiting for the release, but Connor blinks again and keeps carving, expression turning uncharacteristically blank.

"Have you ever carved a pumpkin before?" Markus asked, hoping it conveyed his true meaning. They can't pretend everything is fine while Connor is so clearly not. Markus could reason letting them have a day of peace if Connor was stable, right now he seems anything but. The air is thick with anxiety; it might as well be crackling over Connor's skin like lightning, the warning signs of an oncoming storm. Markus will tread cautiously, but he can't give Connor what he wants if he is on the cusp of a breakdown.

"No," he answered flatly, not looking up from his work, "honestly, I have no idea what I'm doing," he finally lifted his head, "I have analysed multiple jack o' lanterns from our neighbourhood, and with my deconstruction programming I worked out how they were made." A pause, head tilting to the side and Markus could almost be fooled into thinking everything was alright, but Connor's tone had been detached, words a mechanical response, "am I doing it wrong?"

“No, you’re doing it just fine,” Markus replied, swallowing around the lump of anxiety that was forming in his throat.

Connor sighed, hands dropping to the table, shifting from machine to human in the blink of an eye, words anything but emotionless as he said, “I had a panic attack getting dressed okay, is that what you wanted to hear?”

"No, Connor, I don't want to hear that you're having panic attacks," and there it was, the truth of Connor's turmoil. Guilt stirs awake in his wires; he told himself he wouldn't pry, and yet he did, driven by his programming, the carer in him taking over. "I'm sorry love, I let my programming take control," he got to his feet, walking around the table to stand next to Connor, "and my stubbornness, but it's not excusable. I pushed, and I'm sorry about that."

"You always push, Markus," Connor isn't angry, there is no bite to his words, but the storm is closing in, "I don't mean that in a bad way, it's just… I'm not ready to talk about it, and if I told you what happened, you'd want to know why and sometimes I don't know why." He shakes his head in frustration, muttering "It's stupid, I should be able to unzip up my damn jeans without having a panicking."

“Connor,” Mark doesn’t know what to say, but he needs to say something because he did ask, pushed and now Connor is folding in on himself, towering walls rising to lock Markus out and if he’s not quick enough he will be left outside. “It’s not stupid; you **are** not stupid. It's just like with the car, love, you're associating it to the assault, and it's perfectly normal. We will work through this," he wants to hold Connor, to at least press a featherlight kiss to his temple, but Markus doesn't dare make a move.

"It was like it was happening all over again," the pain in Connor's voice is a thousand knife to Markus's heart, "I can't… I can't take it anymore. I relive it in my dreams; I relive it when someone touches me, when someone stands too close. I unzip my jeans and it his hands, I take off my clothes, and I feel his eyes on me," the first tear falls, delicate, silent, only to be followed by the hurricane. "I know it's going to take time; everyone keeps saying that, but I need it to stop, I need everything to stop."

Markus kneels, keeping a safe distance between them, hands held in the air, so Connor can always see them. "It's not going to stop love," a broken sob rattles from Connor's chest at his words, the sight twists in his gut, has tears gathering in his eyes, "that's probably not what you wanted to hear, but you need to feel everything, or else you won't heal. You can't shut out the hurt Connor, we can pretend for a while that this is a normal day and we're regular couple preparing for Halloween, that's fine, but pain demands to be felt and holding it in will only make it worse."

“I don’t know how to handle this, Markus, it hurts so much,” his voice rises, full of static and borderline hysterical, “you keep telling me it gets better but what the hell do you know? You weren’t the one who was raped! It’s not getting better; I’m not getting better. It’s just getting worse.”

Markus flinches at the outburst, at the sudden rise of anger, he is speechless for the first time in his life. Connor is right, he doesn’t know, will never know what Connor is feeling, his pain is unfathomable, and Markus keeps saying pretty words ; she's it will make a difference. Words have escaped him; he is unable to comfort Connor as he comes apart right at his fingertips. He shouldn’t have pushed, should have kept his damn mouth shut because he’s opened a wound that wasn’t ready to see the light of day.

The mistake is his, guilt hot and heavy in his gut, anger crackling through wires, he's messed up, and this time he isn't sure he can fix it. No, he can't fix it, Connor needs someone who understands, who can truthfully say it will get better. He calls to North telepathically, grateful she is home, explaining ; it what he has done, she doesn't berate him or say anything for that matter, but twenty seconds later he can hear boots on the hardwood flooring. She burst into the studio, marching towards him, a fierce and strong force come to save the day.

 _Leave_ North orders, jerking her thumb towards the French doors leading back inside _I’ve got him, Markus._

He hesitates, scared to leave Connor in this frail state, but he has done enough damage, his presence is only adding to Connor’s pain. Guilt riddled he gets up, every step making wires and gears twist, the need to stay, to fix this running dep. He must walk away though, force unwilling feet to carry him inside, glancing back just in time to see Connor collapse into North’s arms.

**XxX**

North is the last person Connor expected to see when he opened his eyes, vision blurred by tears, fritzing around the edges and lighting up with a dozen errors and warnings. He feels awful, angry and bitter, chest cold with fear, lungs straining to exhale as the vice tightens. Systems are going haywire, confused by the panic, by the rapid shift in emotions, he is frayed wires and raw sensors, is breaking apart at the seams. One day is all he wanted, one day where he didn’t have to talk about how he felt, didn’t have to acknowledge what he was, a victim, a broken mess incapable of doing the right thing.

He could have tricked himself into believing the panic attack caused from getting dressed this morning hadn't bothered him, wasn't ready to talk about it anyway, but Markus pushed. Connor wasn't even sure he was aware that he was doing it, but he heard the true question behind the words. Connor could have stayed quiet, kept the words from bubbling up his throat, but he took one look at Markus, and the anger boiled over, bitterness he wasn't familiar with rising to the surface.

Everything came apart so quickly after that; he came apart so violently. Markus isn’t here anymore, Connor doesn’t remember him leaving, isn’t sure he’s glad or not. He’s tired of Markus and Hank telling him things will get better, that he’ll be fine. They can’t promise him that, they don’t know how much this hurts, what it’s like to be violated in the most intimate way. Markus has so many pretty, glittery words to say, is used to talking and having problems just go away, this isn’t something that can be fixed with a heartfelt speech, Markus can’t fix him this time.

He's tired of all these thoughts, all these emotions rattling around inside his head, demanding to be felt, always demanding to be felt. He wants to be better; he wants to shake off the rust and step out into the world anew. To be happy again, to turn back the clock, to be whole again. That's not happening though; time is not his to bend and despite what everyone says this isn't getting better. It's getting worse, the cold is spreading like a deadly virus through wires and programming, is a friend to the fear that sits at the base of his throat.

The pain doesn't just demand to be felt; it demands a life, it's taking his life. He is breaking instead of building, the moments where he is okay is getting by, are fleeting and far between. He's building just to break, and the glistening, lovely words aren't going to save him from the fall. He couldn't keep doing this, is exhausted, is sick of being afraid, of replaying the assault over and over. It's all he thinks about, it's there when he goes to bed at night, and it's there when he wakes first thing in the morning. It is forever a part of him, woven into the very fabric of his being, a poison he can't get out.

He can’t forget, forgetting won’t work, but he needs to come up for air, needs a reprieve desperately, and Markus had taken that from him. North might give it to him though, she is strong and soft in his arms, whispering nonsense words to calm the storm. She doesn’t make promises or tell him it will be okay, she orders him to breathe, to let it out. A connection opens between them, North sharing her pain for the first time, receiving his and sending waves of understanding back. Time becomes meaningless, the world fading to just them, her story unfolding in Connor, violent and heartbreaking as his own.

It’s difficult to disconnect, he feels empty without North’s essence flooding his system, but he feels stronger with her courage lingering in his wires. North had survived so much, had felt everything Connor was feeling and more and here she was, stronger than ever, helping him see that it would get better. Guilt stirs awake, overtaking the sorrow, he feels incredibly awful for yelling at Markus, for not believing him and he feels unworthy of North’s affection when he can’t even bring himself to join their fight.

He is undeserving of her, of Markus's. She had been hurt in so many ways, over and over until she snapped, brought to life by a violent act. Markus gave and gave, and Connor locked him out, pushed him away. He doesn't deserve their kindness, to be here celebrating with them while he is choosing to stay silent. He should go, is trying to get up, to leave, but North stops him, sits him back down. Unlike Markus she does not push or pry, she simply takes his hand, handing him the carving knife, a spark of connection telling him to stay. North sits across the table from him, picking up where Markus left off, giving him a choice to speak or remain silent.

This time, he chooses to talk, the words bubbling up his throat, but before he can speak North raises a brow, lips curving into a slight smile.

“Don’t,” she says, voice firm and leaving no room for interruption, “don’t think you are undeserving of compassion Connor.”

“If I spoke up about what happened to me it could help,” he lowered his eyes, feeling the shame coil under his skin, “you have been through worse than me and yet you’ve told your story, isn’t selfish of me to stay silent?”

"Okay first," she pulls the top off the pumpkin, setting it aside before rolling up her sleeves, "there are Traci's who've had it ‘worse' than me, others who haven't had it ‘as bad', but there is no worse Connor, our pain is equal. We are equal." She meets his eyes, gaze unwavering, "no one is being forced to speak out before they are ready and let me tell you if this movement was happening a month or two ago I wouldn't have wanted to share my story either. It's barely been a month for you Connor, don't punish yourself for not being able to tell the whole fucking world you were raped. The pitying looks, the judgement, it's awful, you need to be emotionally prepared to handle that, and right now you are not equipped for the fallout of telling your story." She reaches across the table, touching his hand briefly, "in time you will be, hell it's important to talk about what happened, take it from someone who kept her emotions buried for far too long. Talking helps, surprisingly, guess that's why Markus never shuts up."

Connor laughed, the authentic sound bringing a sincere smile to North's face. Her words settle over him, delicate against his skin, fiercely cutting strings tethering him to the guilt, shredding them to ribbons, freeing him of shame. For now, for today he is finally ready to come up for air, to sit in the present and enjoy the festivities. He believes North when she says it will get better, had always believed Markus but amidst the storm, it had turned to doubt, bitterness. He needs to apologise to Markus, he didn't mean to be so harsh, to say the things he did, Markus was only trying to help.

“I should go see Markus, apologise for-”

"-You have nothing to apologise for," North interrupts, words heated, her anger not directed at him but Markus, "he always pushes, let him think it over, so he knows not to do it again."

“He was only trying to help,” Connor reasoned.

“And did he?”

Connor deflates, a strange, uncomfortable feeling awakening under his abdomen, “no.”

"Then tell him, Connor. He means well, but you and I both know he has a martyr complex," she pulls out the insides of the pumpkin, the orange mess smells pungent, looks like someone scrambled a human brain. "He can't save you Connor no matter how much he wants to. You can lean on him for support and me, but as harsh as this might sound, you are the only one capable of saving yourself. That doesn't mean we won't be here to help you along the way or pick you up when you fall. But," she pauses in thought, "you gotta be your own hero," she waves a slime covered hand in his general direction, "and I've seen you be a pretty damn fine hero before," she winks at him, dumping the contents of the pumpkin into a waiting bowl.

“When have I ever been a hero?” he asked, feeling unsure of himself, scared to face the pain alone.

"The night of the rebellion, we were as good as dead before you showed up with the androids from CyberLife," she says this like it should be obvious, like Connor should take this memory out, re-watch it and see a hero, not someone trying to make amends for all the harm they had done. "I knew at that moment Markus would never be mine," she doesn't sound resentful, perhaps a little wistful, "he was always going to be yours."

Connor doesn't know what to say to that, sorry seems pointless, he never intended to take Markus from North, but she's' not seeking an apology or holding it against him. She knew it was coming like she'd seen their fate written in the stars and rather be consumed by bitterness she let Markus go. She's giving her time and energy to him now, she's offering friendship, support that Markus and Hank can't give. She shared her past, is sharing the truth of what it takes to recover.

“Thank you North,” he says, catching the slight smile flickering across her face.

“Yeah, don’t mention it,” she shrugs, avoiding his gaze, “hey, so when you’re ready to talk, the survivors and I gather every Tuesday morning and Thursday night at the thirium café in main street,” she looks up now, offering a true smile, “or if you just want to come along and listen that’s okay too.”

Connor doesn't feel like much of a survivor; maybe it's the analytical programming him in that makes the word victim standout. It's what the law would call him, there is no usage of survivor when writing reports, he a victim, is a numbered case file tucked away on a shelf. It's such an ugly word, such a terrible thing to be, he's used to being numbers, that doesn't bother him as much, he likes numbers, words hold such powerful meaning though.

Shaking his head to scatter the storm clouds, he refocuses on the task at hand, on North, he’s spiralled enough today, he doesn’t need to chase another troubled thought down the rabbit hole. “Thank you, I don’t think I’m ready, but I appreciate the offer.”

“Anytime,” she picks up the knife, grinning dangerously as she starts carving. “You know, I think Markus was right about this being therapeutic.”

“Markus is often right about things,” he stated lightly, feeling a tug of guilt, but he squishes it down, choosing to stay in the moment. He’s rather enjoying North’s company. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

Connor takes the top of the pumpkin, rolling up his sleeve before digging in, offering North a smile as he asks, “do you like dogs?”

**XxX**

Connor finds Markus hunched over the piano, a solemn melody filling the evening air, sitting alongside the smell of pies and churning guilt. Connor slips onto the seat next to him, the melody ending abruptly, the room heavy with silence. There is so much that needs to be said, but the words don’t seem to want to come, trapped by fear, by something Connor can’t quite name. He’d rather stay silent, sit in the moment, in the memories that crest over him. Better times of lazy afternoons spent watching Markus play, listening to the love songs, the classics, watching him paint, being a canvas for Markus’s brilliant and magical worlds flicker to life in his mind.

That’s what he wanted all along, to cross the threshold and find the person he used to be, to be the person he was before Reed took him apart. That’s why he became so angry, not just at Markus but at the world, at himself, at _everything_. He foolishly thought that these familiar walls, the smell of paint and sound of music could piece him together again. But it will take more than familiarity and wishful thinking to make this better, he doesn’t want to think about that though. Wants to close his eyes, rest his head on Markus’s shoulder and listen to him play. They need to talk; the waiting conversations is heavy in the air, will hold hostage to peace until all is said and done.

"I'm sorry I pushed,” Markus speaks first, words full of sorrow, soaked with guilt.

"You didn't really" Connor pointed out, tone light, "you asked me if I knew how to carve a pumpkin."

“Well true, but we both know what I was really asking."

“I forgive you,” he doesn’t hold this against Markus, the bitterness, the anger has scattered. “I wasn't angry at you, not really. I was frustrated with myself. I thought I'd cross the threshold, and everything would be fine, that’d I’d be fine. Me not wanting to tell you was my way of trying to hold onto the delusion.”

“You wanted to pretend awhile, I saw that, and I wanted you to be able to, but I sensed you weren't ready then.”

"I wasn't but North… the last few hours with North were actually nice," he finds himself smiling, touching absently at the piano keys. After they finished carving their pumpkins, they took them to the main street where tonight's festivities would take place. North leading him the long way home, pointing out her favourite places and regaling him with stories of her misadventures with friends and times spent with Markus before the android rebellion. "She told me some things I needed to hear and bonding with her by talking about music, and trivial things was what I needed."

“I’m glad she could help Connor,” Markus said, hands settling on the keys, playing a light-hearted melody.

"She said I needed to be my own hero." North's words replayed over and over while he carved his jack o' lantern, the word hero glowing neon in his mind. Connor never considered himself a hero, had done what he did because it was right because Markus and his people would be slaughtered if he didn't. If that's all it took to be a hero he could do it, would be saving the city in no time, putting himself in the line of danger for the good of the cause was wired into him. Yet he could not tell his story, though North had reassured him it was okay he feels a flicker of guilt. Maybe he isn't cut out to be a hero, choosing to save himself above anyone else seemed a foreign concept, he existed for others, how the hell was he meant to save himself?

“I don't know if I'm strong enough, Markus,” he confessed, sagging, dropping his weary head to rest on Markus’s broad shoulder.

“You are my love,” he sealed his words with a kiss, lips brushing against Connor’s head, “don't push yourself though, remember it's okay to lean on me, every superhero needs a sidekick.”

Connor feels Markus smile against his scalp, it has warmth spreading through him, tears of a different kind gathering in his eyes. “You rescued me from my own personal hell, you freed me,” Connor lifts his head, meeting Markus’s eyes, smiling at the sight of love and devotion glistening back at him “You have always been my hero Markus.”

"And I will continue to be, my love” he vowed, “and I'll help _you_ be your own hero, whatever you need, I'm here.”

Markus _will_ help him recover, will be by his side every step of the way on this long road to recovery, but this is his story. Painful and so very far from over, it’s his to live through, to set free when the time is right. Carried on a current of bravery, strength drawn from Markus, from an ember lit within, Connor leans over, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of Markus’s mouth, feels his thirium pump racing, holds his breath waiting for the wave of memories but they do not come.

A reprieve at last.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled a little writing this chapter, the start flowed easily, but towards the end, I hit a bit of writer's block. I enjoyed exploring North and Connor's friendship, and that's going to be featured more in the upcoming chapters. I also wanted to explore Markus struggling with supporting Connor, he's going to make mistakes, and Connor isn't always going to be easily soothed by him. He needed someone to relate to, to understand the pain and show him that it gets better. He also needed a little reminder that he's strong enough to get through this, North knows that it takes more than love and support to heal and she wasn't afraid to tell him.  
> Markus may be his hero, but that doesn't mean Connor can't be one either :)


	8. Fill Me Up & Let Me Try

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you every for being patient with me, I had a lovely time with my friend, but it's good to be back writing. I have a long, very emotional chapter for you lovelies to make up for the wait :)  
> Enjoy, and I look forward to finishing this story with all of you :)

The world rushes by in bright oranges, golden yellows and crimson reds, the woods rising up in a blaze of colours in the last stand against winter. Connor's never seen so many trees, wants to run his fingers over their think trunks, analyse just how old they are. The road ahead curves around the mountains edge, a clearing in the trees reveals a lake in the distance, shimming like a lost treasure, up ahead the lodge comes into sight, as beautiful and majestic as Markus said it would be. It had been Markus who suggested he and Hank come here, a break from the city and the media blitz that was erupting throughout Detroit sounded like a perfect idea to Connor. Hank had been hesitant at first, uncertain if it was a good idea considering if Connor had a seizure, they would be nowhere near a CyberLife. It was a valid concern, one easily solved by installing Rosa's software patch, which he had already decided was worth a try after Halloween.

It was Sunday morning when the happiness was chased away by a panic attack. It came without warning, a swell of coldness, error codes and fritzing programs taking the air from lungs and spreading fear to every inch of his being. It felt like dying, it always felt like dying, this breath would be his last, systems would fail him, the world shuttering and shaking around him as his visual input flickered between the present and the past. It took twenty minutes to calm down, to clear the warning alerts and silence the alarms. He felt dreadful, body sluggish from the sudden drain of thirium, had to switch into low mode to avoid a reboot. He didn't want to be in the dark, to exist in the void while his body righted itself, would rather tremble and struggle to stay awake then find himself on that desolate road.

Markus brings him a bag of thirium, cradling Connor against his chest as he drank, one hand running nimble fingers soothingly through his messy hair. When the storm had passed, systems running at full capacity he untangled himself from Markus’s arms, feeling restless, the lingering fear an unpleasant undercurrent jolting beneath his plating. The richly coloured walls are closing in on him, the echo of chattering voices setting him on edge, each clink and thud coming from downstairs makes him feel like someone is plucking at exposed wires.

Sensing his distress Markus suggests they go for a walk, Connor is uncertain at; first, the streets had been crammed with bodies last night, faces concealed by masks of ghouls and werewolves, a potential threat could be lurking just mere meters away. New Jericho was lit up with a colour and joy, streets decorated with bats, string lights an array of jack o' lanterns, it was a shame to see only see the darkness, so Connor did his best to enjoy it. North stayed close to his side throughout the night, she didn't wear a costume like the others, didn't want to hide what she fought hard to be.

This morning Jericho seems quiet, from the vantage point up on the hill Connor can see that the liveliness from last night has died down. It had run late into the night, no doubt the androids were at home charging. It would be nice to stretch the nervousness from his artificial bones, to shake off the tendrils of fear left by the panic attack and Markus would be with him, he is, will always be safe with Markus. With a deep breath, inhaling the crisp morning air, exhaling the fear Connor turns to Markus, smiling as he accepts the offer. Five minutes later he and Markus are out the door, steps matched as they walk silently down the hill.

They find themselves on the main street, from where Connor stands he can see the café North told him about yesterday. Androids don't need to drink or eat, but there have been a few changes to thirium over the past six months, deviants want to try new things, want to have things they were never allowed before. Flavoured thirium was one of them, Connor had never tried it, but the café itself was also busy, new flavours and colours of thirium continually being added to the menu.

He's thinking about thirium and what coffee flavoured must taste like to distract himself from thinking about what North actually said about the café. It'swere the survivors met up twice a week, and she invited him, said he was worthy of coming, but he didn't feel it. The word victim was embedded deep, the bravery found yesterday was scattered on the wind like the autumn leaves, taken far, far away. There was only misery in its place, stealing the brightness and hope from the world, turning it grey and foreboding. He felt afraid, felt panic with every breath, every thud of his thirium pump. It always felt like this after a major panic attack, strings cut, hopes dashed, embers smouldering to ash. Connor carries himself through the world as a ghost, an echo of the person he used to be.

“Love?” Markus interrupts the dark, swirling thoughts.

"I don't want to talk about it," he says a little too harshly, scared to unleash the waves of emotion, doesn't want to break down where there are eyes to see.

“Okay, I won’t push,” Markus hols his hands up in surrender.

The fall into silence, the café opens its doors, a group of androids walk by, a few more stores open, Jericho bursts to life around them. It feels strange to see the world is still turning, Connor's life has been brought to a sudden standstill, he is suspended in fear, reliving the past, unable to move on and yet the world spins madly on. Androids go about their lives, they are preparing for the holidays, mimicking the human world so perfectly. Everyone is living, but Connor's life has been turned upside, everything he had gained ripped away, world left in tatters, it seems unfair that everybody else gets to keep on living. Their worlds didn't shutter and shake, wasn't torn apart by an act of violence, they are free, and he is caged, is a marionette on strings once again.

He hates them. He hates the world for turning, for not pausing if only for a moment to give him a chance to heal, to catch up. Without warning he changes directions, cutting through an alleyway and following the path North led him yesterday. She offered him her place of solitude, a tiny courtyard tucked away out of sight, shaded by the buildings around it. In the centre is a sparsely covered tree, under its spindly branches, are two curved stone seats. Connor slumps under the tree, back pressed against the bark, fingers digging into the dirt around its roots.

"I see you found North's hiding spot," Markus said as he approached, sitting down on the closet seat, the shadows of the branches playing across his face. "You should see this tree in spring, I don't know it, survivors, here yet somehow it does," he smiles softly at Connor, the double meaning evident in his words, "I've been told it has the sweetest apples."

Connor doesn't answer; instead he looks up, watching the remaining mottled colour leaves sway in the breeze.

“North likes to say I can bring anything to life,” he quips, “when we first found this place I was certain it wouldn’t bloom come spring, I was proven wrong though.”

“How come it’s North hiding place and not both of yours?” Connor asked, bringing his gaze at last to Markus’s face.

“She kicked me out,” he said matter-of-factly, shrugging slightly.

“Well I was invited,” he raised a brow in challenge, half wanting Markus to leave, to let him ride out this unpleasant mood alone, part of him wanting him to stay, to break through the murky depths he was sinking into.

“Do you want me to leave?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, sighing wearily. “Can we just sit in silence for a change?”

Markus nodded, stretched out his legs and laying back against the seat if he were human the position would be horribly uncomfortable. Connor looked away, scanning the environment around him, the buildings surrounding them were over eighty-years-old, bricks missing in places, moss and ivy growing up the walls. At first, it had reminded him of the Zen Garden, the stone pavements and small empty fish pond were enough for him to fear Amanda would appear but the more he looked, the more it became different. North had woven solar powered fairy lights through the spare's branches of the tree, in the bark she'd carved her name, had covered the exposed brick walls in graffiti, song lyrics and symbols. This place wasn't the Zen Garden, it was North's hideaway, had pieces of her strewn all over the place.

Exhaling the anxiety, feeling it ebb beneath his skin Connor closed his eyes, fingers digging into the earth. "It's peaceful here," he hummed, "wish I could take Hank somewhere like this, get away from Detroit for a while before the boredom drives us mad."

“Why don’t you?” Connor hears Markus’s clothes rustle as he sits up, “remember, Carl left me his lodge outside of Toronto. It’s beautiful there this time of year, you and Hank should go, especially since this week is going to be one hell of a media frenzy.”

Connor considers this, the idea of being somewhere else has never sounded so appealing. A safe place far from the madness that is about to unfold, a place where he can hideaway awhile, let the world keep spinning while he heals. Would Hank enjoy a few days away from the city? Taking time off work hasn't been good for him, either of them, all they do is watch TV, and it's not good for Hank's health. Connor is tired of spending the days pacing restlessly, anxious and bored, thoughts circling and circling until he breaks down.

Leaving Detroit isn’t going to make anything better, staying in a new place surrounded by a world he doesn’t know won’t make him forget what happened, nothing can make him forget what happened, but it sounds like it could be healing. Connor could explore the little town that looked so whimsical in Carl’s paintings, he could venture through the woods and find a secret place all for himself. A safe haven where he can come undone with only mother nature to witness.

“I’d like that,” he spoke at last, “if Hank agrees to it.”

“I’m sure he will,” Markus said in that annoyingly all-knowing voice of his, but the warm smile on his face had Connor smiling too.

Only it drops too soon; because as enjoyable as running off sounds it might not be the wisest choice. If Connor had another seizure Hank would be unable to help him; however Rosa's software patch would prevent that from happening, well in theory. Hank isn't likely to take him anywhere if he's at risk of having another seizure and after the brutal panic attack this morning it might be time to give it a go, it can't make him feel any worse than he already does. Connor surrenders to the idea, puts trust in Rosa and makes a task list.

Ask Hank if we can go to Markus’s Lodge.

Install the software patch from Rosa.

Reminder set Connor blinks them away, staring up at the spindly branches, the last few leaves fluttering to the ground, “are you sure it’s not dying?”

“No love,” Markus assured, warmth filling his voice, words once more holding double meaning, “it’s just dormant.”

***

They arrive at the lodge at quarter past twelve, the trip taking fifteen minutes longer due to Connor having a momentary panic attack. It was a combination of leaving and spending the next three hours in the car that brought it on. Though Hank had said he was happy for him to drive, Connor didn't technically have a license, and since they were crossing the border, it was bound to be a problem. He didn't have a real passport either. Androids weren't allowed to leave the confines of the US, it was another of many laws to be changed, though it would mean talks with multiple leaders. Markus had more pressing issues to attend to right now, he also still had a friend who made passports.

Connor thought he shouldn’t take any more risks, given he was already breaking a feudal law. He wasn’t surprised Hank had no issues with it, Connor felt uneasy going against his programming om the beginning, abiding the law was hardwired into him, it took months to dismantle the codes, to learn that some laws were outdated. Some were just wrong, but he didn’t want to think about that, he had to focus on getting out the front door, then will himself into the car.

He wouldn’t have left if it weren’t for Hank gently encouraging him, the sheer panic at just walking outside nearly knocked him to the ground. He gripped the nob tight, errors and warning flickering in his field of vision, lungs holding hostage to air. Panic is an awful thing, feels a lot like dying, has systems going into overdrive, programs fritzing as a coldness he cannot find the source to courses through his veins. Fear blocks out the world, the curious excitement he’d felt at going somewhere new shattered. He sinks into the black sea under the hurricane sky, down, down, down until something shutters and shakes and he is suddenly afloat.

It wasn't Hank calling to him, though he is there, reaching out but not touching, it was the software patch that pulled him back from the abyss, programs returning to normal, all alerts ceased. He breathes out the fear, the coldness, doesn't feel great but doesn't feel awful either. Connor collects himself, finds the courage to slip into the passenger side and away the go, music playing softly in the background, Sumo falling asleep in the back seat and the city disappearing in the rear-view mirror.

Now they are finally here, have made it to the lodge, which is a grand wooden house that resides on the edge of the bluff, overlooking the forest below, in the distance the lake shimmers like a sea of jewels. Inside is as lavish, no expense spared in making a statement when it comes to the entrance. Carl's artwork lines the walls, antiques and trinkets displayed on shelves, rich woven fabric carpets bring warmth and colour to the mostly wooden interior.

“Wow, this place is impressive,” Hank whistled, eyes sweeping over a suit of armour, “it's probably worth as much as you Connor."

Connor takes a few steps forward, stopping to scratch Sumo behind the ears, “considering I'm a deviant, I'm not worth anything.”

“I'm sure I could sell you for spare parts on the black market,” Hank quipped, flashing him a grin.

"My parts are incompatible with other models" he replied lightly ", and there's only one of me."

“Well then, that makes you priceless Connor,” Hank said, grin turning into a warm fatherly smile.

Connor shakes his head, attempting to mirror the smile, but it doesn't feel priceless, isn't filled with wonder and excitement like he thought he would be, he's not feeling much of anything. "Whatever you say, Hank," he readjusts the strap of the duffle bag then follows the most obvious route through the house, up the stairs and to a bedroom. No one has lived here since Carl's accident, Markus said he used to rent it out, save it going to waist and Leo and his friends had stayed here when they were younger. For the past nine months it was empty, the only person coming and going the maid.

Connor sets his duffle on the bed, tugs off the beanie and drops it next to the bag, brushing a hand through his hair to tame the unruly strands. He feels strange standing in this big room, hasn’t been feeling quite right since leaving home. He puts it down to anxiety, it seemed the most reasonable explanation and rather than chase dark thoughts around his head he starts to unpack, finding comfort in the manual task. Once he’s put the few clothing he packed away in the closet he decides to call Markus.

 _Hello love,_ he greats, words laced with adoration.

Connor sags to the bed under the wave of Markus’s voice, a spark brings a smile to his face, _Hello Markus, I’m surprised you answered, I thought you had back to back meetings._

 _I'm on a lunch break, though I prefer the term mental health break. I won't bore you with the details,_ Connor is never bored by the details, it's not in his programming to be bored by such things, Markus is sparing him from what is taking place, the new movement is coming to life, and Connor is hiding away in a lavish bedroom. He feels ashamed of himself. _How was the drive?_

 _Pleasant_ he pushes the swell of emotions away, picking up the discarded beanie to twist in his trembling hands, _it’s beautiful here._

 _I wish I could be there with you_ he hums, his love seeping through the connection, wrapping around Connor like a warm embrace, _enjoy it for it me._

 _Of course,_ he looks down at the beanie, the same one he wore the day he met Markus, _I should go, got lots to explore_ , he forces excitement into his voice, a false sense of curiosity through the connection.

_Call me whenever you need love, I’m right here._

_I know Markus_ he closes his eyes against the sudden sting of tears, disconnecting in a hurry, hoping Markus is too busy to be worried about it. He can’t hold back the unsettling feeling rolling over him and Markus would sense it, would know because he always knows when Connor is about to break. He must hold it together though, find a shred of excitement, a hint of curiosity and give it chase. Swallowing the lump building in his throat he places the beanie snuggly on his head, making sure it covers the whirling LED. He’s going to try and enjoy himself, explore every nook and cranny of the lodge, venture into the woods and find a place where he can set free the storm brewing beneath his skin.

**XxX**

The sun is setting over the river, the water ablaze with fiery colours, yet it looks so calm, barely a ripple in the shimmering surface. It's beautiful, but the undercurrents are dangerous, beneath the waves is a watery grave, the souls who lost their lives here reaching out from below to drag down anyone who dares dive in. Markus wishes he had time to paint the images unfolding in his mind, to show the beauty and darkness stretching out before him, but he is not here to create art. He has ventured out among the humans for a reason, not that he's never been afraid to leave New Jericho. They fought for their freedom, not be put in a gilded cage but as time goes on, he realises that's exactly what's happened.

Freedom is an illusion, they aren't free, not truly, every meeting that took placed proved that to him. The humans may be willing to give android body autonomy rights, but only from this moment onwards. Which meant North and Connor would never get justice, none of them would, and the people who hurt them would remain free. North and the Traci's weren't trying to have every human who rented them sent to prison, most of the men were forgotten, but the monsters stood out. The ones who hurt them, who broke them, they deserved to be locked up, because they would hurt again.

Markus could not take the deal, rob the survivors of their chance of justice. In the past week more victims were stepping forward, not just rape survivors from before the uprising but other's who'd been hurt in the camps, deviants who'd been abused by their owners and held captive until they escaped or were taken by force. The humans could be charged with property damage, but it seemed wrong to charge these monsters with such a meaningless thing. They were not property, no one owned them anymore, but the government still tried too.

Not everyone was against them, though. Markus had met with a few politicians were willing to stand by him, lawyers had reached at as well, offering to represent any android free of charge. Hope was not lost, it was with the people, the ones surrounding him, who believed in their rights from the start. It was time to be loud, to have their stories heard, what little talk that had been whispered or gossiped over the radio wasn't enough, wasn't the whole story. They would march, storm out into the street with their signs and flags, they would demand to be heard.

It was going to take time though, this was important, a significant moment in history and it couldn't be rushed. It also wasn't his place to lead this march, he'd stand by his people, but it was the survivors who called the shots, who chose if they wanted to tell the world what happened to them. North and a few others were willing to fight peacefully and when it came time for them to march Markus would be there, but after keeping this secret from his people for so long, he knew it was right to hand this over to them. They had forgiven him, some were rightfully still angry, and vowing to never do it again wasn't good enough. This was all he had to offer, that and the promise to never stop fighting for them.

Never stop fighting for Connor.

Which is what brought him to the riverfront, he's finally meeting with Detective Lydia Danvers. Between his busy schedule and hers, they'd never gotten the chance to talk, with Connor out of town and the afternoon free he reached out to her in hopes of getting a chance to speak in person. Luck was with him today; if luck could be applied to such a thing as this because she had the day off. She arranged to meet him at The Boat House Café.

He is greeted by the smell of coffee and freshly baked pastries, a few heads swivel his way, squinting at him like he is an old friend they can't quite place. Thankfully they turn back to their meals, his flimsy disguise enough to cast doubt. It's incredible what a beanie and a large pair of sunglasses can achieve, he makes an effort to blend in, not that he isn’t allowed here he’d rather just avoid any unnecessary confrontations and he doesn’t want to be rude to the humans and androids who admire him.

Scanning the room, he finds Lydia sitting at a table tucked away in the back, she recognises him with no trouble, rising to shake his hand in greeting. When the waiter comes by Markus orders a coffee to throw off any further suspicion, choose Carl's favourite, and there is a pang in his chest when it arrives, the aroma reminding him of home. What would Carl say about all of this? Would he have a quote from an inspiring philosopher to inspire him, some words of wisdom to keep the fire going? Markus missed him, wished more than anything he was here to lean on, but as always Markus has to shoulder the world alone.

“Thank you again for meeting me,” he says to Lydia, forces the sorrow aside, bringing himself back to the present.

"It's no problem; honestly, it's honour," Lydia smiled, she is pretty, has a strength in her that reminds him of North. "I feel very privileged to be able to help you and your people any way I can."

“Well we need all the support we can get,” he admitted, “the conversations aren’t going well.”

“I have heard whispers, powerful people scared of their skeletons coming out of the closet,” she grimaced, white tipped nails tapping against the ceramic of the mug.

“We have a plan of action,” he revealed, “but I’m not here to talk politics or to sway you in our favour, though I don’t think I need too.”

“No, you don’t,” she smiled fondly, “you never did and especially not for this.”

Her words are heavy, eyes glistening with pain, “If I may ask, do you know a survivor?”

"I know too many Markus," she sighed, shoulders hunching forward under the weight of all she'd seen, "I will never forget my first. She was a college student, first year of studying medicine and some frat boy rapes her while she's walking home. The school didn't do anything, said all the usual bullshit and the justice system failed her. Someone miss handled the evidence, and the perp walked free," her hands tighten around the mug, "he was a rich white boy with money, she never stood a chance."

“Would Connor have stood a chance?” he finds himself asking, thinking for the first time what changing the law would mean, “will he stand a chance?” Could this all be for nothing, would Reed remain free even if things changed, would there not be enough evidence? Could Reed make it go away?

"If his memory had been intact then it would be indisputable."

“A friend of Connor’s from CyberLife has patched the recording back together,” he explained, hopeful, “a jury can clearly see it was rape.”

“And they could argue it was altered once so it could have been again,” she declared sadly.

“Jesus,” Markus scrubs a hand over his face, a wave of despair washing over him, “what about physical evidence?”

“Markus,” Lydia places a steadying hand on top of his, “don’t do this to yourself.”

“I need to make sure Connor has every fighting chance possible,” he tries to not sound pleading, to not let the emotions rise to the surface. He understands why Lydia is hesitant to answer him, this information is sensitive, and he shouldn’t be asking her to divulge any of it to him, but he needs to know. Needs kindle for the fire, needs something to hold on to.

“Yes, we collected semen samples from the pelvic examination,” Lydia says this as gently as she possibly can, keeping her hand clasped over his.

Markus feels a strange queasy sensation stirring awake under his abdomen, mind supplying the word nauseous. He swallows thickly, trying to dislodge the images the flicker through his mind, playing out a horror show that could never be as awful as the real event. Her words, though the findings were obvious, are jarring, rattling him to the core. God it hurts, this all hurt so much, and he hasn't allowed himself to grieve. He has been so busy seeking justice, taking care of Connor that he never found the time to accept own pain. Lydia's words have brought it into the light. He hasn't felt this emotionally wrecked since the night he learnt Connor was raped.

It hurts like hell, but he’s got to feel it, or it will devour him.

“Sorry,” he blinks the tears furiously from his eyes, pushing the tidal wave of emotions behind a barrier, sealed for later.

“You don’t have to be sorry, Markus” she reassured, “Connor is your friend, this hurts you too.”

“He’s my partner actually,” he says, not that it matters but it falls from his tongue regardless, “and God it does, I hate that someone hurt him, that they are still out there.”

"We'll get him, Markus," she vowed, squeezing his hand, "don't give up and don't forget to take care of yourself. I know support workers who can help you? Rape affects everyone, and it's okay to reach out."

“Thank you,” he collects himself by taking a deep breath, exhaling the grief, “we could use more support for our rape survivors-” he pauses, considering her words. He’s so used to being the leader, having everyone turn to him that he’s forgotten he can seek counsel too, that he can ask for help, especially with this. A professional could help Markus navigate Connor’s recovery, he’s been stumbling lately, fumbling through the grey and he wants, _needs_ to do better for Connor, “-and so could I, for Connor. He’s hurting in ways I can’t imagine, and I want to offer him the best emotional support I can.”

“You are truly selfless Markus,” Lydia remarked, astonishment flickering in her hazel eyes.

“It’s just who I am,” he shrugs off the complaint, “my people need me, Connor needs me, I can’t let them down.”

“I don’t think you could ever let them down,” she affirmed, pausing to take a sip of her coffee before continuing, “and Connor needs a lot of support, sometimes it’s going to be more then you can give.”

“I understand,” he does, he knows it will take more than him to help Connor heal. It will take Hank’s love and North’s friendship, weeks of recovery and rebuilding, maybe even years, but he will stand by Connor until the very end.

***

Markus arrives home half an hour later, systems sluggish, metaphorical heart heavy in his chest. He's planning on getting some thirium before heading to bed to recharge for a few before facing another big day. He's so out of it he doesn't hear the music coming from the studio until he's halfway to the kitchen, the familiar song luring him in, fatigue momentarily forgotten. He finds North standing behind the easel, half concealed by a canvas, a tin of blue paint open on the stool beside her. There is a smudge of blue on her left cheek, tears sparkling like a thousand pretty lights in her eyes. This is a private moment he shouldn't be witnessing, but before he can retreat, she catches sight of him, smearing more paint on her face as she tries to wipe away the tears.

“Hey, how did it go with Lydia?”

"Emotional," he answered, sagging under the weight of the confession, feeling like a marionette whose strings have been cut and he is left waiting to fall into a heap on the floor. "I don't know what I was hoping to gain from meeting her, she's lovely, but she can't do anything for us until the laws are changed." He ventures slowly into the room, studying North closely, she's been crying, can see the tear stains on her top, dotted with splashes of blue, "how was your afternoon?"

“Emotional,” she echoes, long lash fluttering to chase the shimmer from her dark eyes.

"We're going to get through this North," his voice sounds hollow, void of any genuine belief in his statement.

“We always seem to,” she murmured, gaze shifting to the canvas, if she picked up on his distress she’s keeping it to herself, Markus goes to leave when she says, “come see.”

Markus closes the space between them, stepping around the canvas to view what North had been painting. It wasn't an image, it was three simple words, but strung together they held so much power. In bold perfectly aligned print North had written carry the weight, the meaning behind the words profound, moving him to tears.

“That's what it feels like,” she whispered, voice thick emotions, “like there is a dead weight on my chest and no one else can carry it for. The others like me understand, but they have their own weight, _trauma_ to bear.”

"I wish I could take this burden from you North,” Markus presses a kiss to her temple, pulling her close against his chest.

"You can't," she leans into his warmth, head resting over his pounding thirium pump, tears soaking the material of the button-down shirt, "and that's okay. This is our battle Markus, you can't fight it for us. You've tried, and it's not working." North steps back, placing a hand against his cheek, a connection opening between them, support and love coursing through it, "a march will get everyone's attention, it will give us a chance to tell our stories, and you can be there for us, but you can't carry _this_ weight."

He wants to, God he wants too, but North is right, this is not his fight, the pain is _theirs_ , this movement for them. The tears come in a sudden wave of despair, strength finally giving in, sending him crashing to the ground. He cries for his people, for North, for Connor. He's buried the pain long enough, the release is brutal, is earth-shattering. Yet, it's freeing, giving in to the pain, accepting is overdue, grieving for Connor, for himself is needed. He comes apart in North's arms, lets the anguish consume him, the tears fall freely.

He accepts that he's not okay, none of them are, but in time, on a far-off day, they will be. 

**XxX**

Hank wasn’t sure about leaving Detroit, the idea of getting away in itself was terrific, sitting around the house all day was making him go stir crazy, but he couldn't bring himself to go back work. Connor wasn't ready to be left alone, not for long periods of a time, hell Hank got nervous just leaving him to go grocery shopping. Connor struggled in crowded spaces, something Hank relates too, there is nothing worse than a building full of strangers and loud sounds. A few days in the woods away from the chaos of the world, the madness of the city, would be good for him, both of them. His only reservations had been fear for Connor's health, but he hadn't had any further seizures, and the installation of the software patch would safeguard against any future episodes. Theoretically.

So why did he have a terrible feeling about this? He knew better than to doubt his instincts, years of being a detective taught him to always trust his gut, but Connor had been so eager to get away, and Markus was so damn convincing with his smooth voice and poetic words. He's taking a risk, can feel it in his bones, as the day bleeds into night the anxiety hums loud and strong beneath his skin. Apart from the panic attack this morning Connor has been coping relatively well, a little quieter than usual, less inquisitive then he expected on their stroll through the woods. Maybe that was the problem, Connor seemed almost okay, and as much Hank wanted him to be, it felt fake.

Not forced like the second time Connor altered the memory, there were no false smiles or acting like everything was sunshine and fucking rainbows. Perhaps Hank was overthinking, should be grateful that Connor found the strength to leave the city, to spend the afternoon exploring the woods, analysing the new world around him. He had seemed lighter, moving through the forest with ease, taking in the lush undergrowth, eyes widening in pure delight when a stag emerged from the shadows.

It reminded Hank of Cole, they used to go camping in the summers, Cole would chase frogs and catch butterflies, only to let them go as he didn't want to take them from their families. He missed his son every day, that kind of pain never went away, time just made it bearable. He couldn't let the pain of the past darken their time away. Connor needed this, should be anyway but the city this week. He put the uneasy feeling down to a mixture of grief for Cole and worry for Connor. A day with only one panic attack was a good thing, it also meant maybe the software patch was working. Connor had snapped out of the panic a lot easier this morning.

It could also explain the shift in his mood, Hank didn't quite understand how the patch worked, but he knew anti-anxiety medication had an adjustment period. Past experiences had taught him that, and honestly, there are several reasons for the change in Connor's mood, and Hank is most likely stressing himself out for no reason. He will be grateful for the good day they've had. He's going to cherish the sight of wonder and enchantment on Connor's face at the sight of stag until the day he dies.

Energy is being wasted following these thoughts around his head and it's getting late, he's tired from the trek through the woods and very much ready to fall into bed. Making his way upstairs he stops by Connor's room, finding him sitting cross-legged on the bed, flicking through the pages of an art magazine from two decades ago. Hank misses real magazines and books, it's rare to find authentic ones these days, he's glad that the appreciation has passed to Connor, who's bookshelf back home is ever expanding.

“Anything interesting?” he asked, leaning casually against the door jamb.

“Depends if you like art,” Connor looks up, shrugging with one shoulder, “there is an interview with Carl about some of his earlier work. Reading his words, it’s like they were spoken by Markus. He always said how much Carl was like a father to him. I just never knew how much of wisdom he imparted on him,” Connor’s lips twitched into a thoughtful smile, “I’m really lucky to have him.”

Hank knew Connor cared deeply for Markus, there was a bond between them that seemed otherworldly; like they were two star-crossed lovers finally coming home to each other. Which was saying something, because Hank wasn't exactly a romantic, but the way Markus cared for Connor, the way he _looked_ at him revealed just how devoted he was to him. "He's lucky to have you, Connor" Hank knows Markus is good to Connor, that he loves him deeply, but Connor is something else altogether. He is kind and strong, and as much as Hank likes Markus, he never wants his light to overshine Connor's. The kid is damn special, not because CyberLife made him that way, but because of the person, he became all on his own. "And so am I," he moves the short distance to the bed, sitting down opposite Connor, "I never knew how empty my life was until you found me, Connor. I want you to know that taking you in was the best decision I ever made."

Connor lowers his gaze, fingers twisting together in that nervous habit of his and it reminds Hank that he was meant to find Connor a replacement coin. “I feel like I’ve been more trouble then I’m worthy lately,” there it is, the storm. The sense of worthlessness caused by those who’ve hurt him rising to the surface.

Hank sighs wearily, wished he had the right words to say, that they came easily to him, but he's damn well going to try. "You haven't been trouble Connor," slowly, carefully he takes Connor's chin in the crook of his fingers, tilting his face up. "You're my son, you'll never be a problem or a burden, got it?" he emphasis his words with a smile.

Connor's lip flicker into a smile as he says, "got it, dad."

Warmth blossoms in his chest, pride and joy and an array of emotions jostling around his head. He's missed being called dad, was scared at first to allow himself to be a parent again, scared of betraying Cole. In the end, there was no denying that Connor was like a son to him, and accepting him into his life, his heart, wasn't a betrayal to Cole, there was room for both. "You know, you can call me that more often if you want?" he shrugs like it's no big deal when maybe it means everything.

“You don’t mind?” Connor’s LED flickers yellow, brow furrowed slightly, “I’d like too, I think of you as my father, I just,” the light turns red as Connor pulls away from Hank’s touch, arms wrapping protectively around his middle, walls rising tall and impenetrable.

“You just what Connor?” he hedged, holding back the urge to bring Connor in for a hug, he needed space when he was like this.

“Nothing,” he shakes his head, LED fading back to blue, the storm swept away, the troubled thought locked away, “I’d like to call you dad.”

"Well, it's settled then," he takes this as a win, opening his arms in invitation, a heartbeat later and Connor crawled into the embrace, deflating against his chest. "You sure you're going to be alright sleeping in here by yourself tonight?" Whenever Markus wasn't staying with them, Connor would sleep with him, had been unable to sleep alone since remembering the assault the second time. Hank felt a little apprehensive about letting Connor sleep alone, he was plagued by nightmares often, and Hank didn't want him to wake up after one of them in this strange new place alone.

“I’m going to try,” he hummed, “at least I’d like too.”

"Alright," God his kid was brave, Hank was so damn proud of him. "Well I'm going to get some shut-eye, that walk took it out of me," he leant back, keeping a hand on Connor's arm, "you need anything before I leave?"

“No, but thank you, I’m going to finish reading then power down.”

“Don’t stay up too late,” he tousled Connor’s hair before rising on aching legs, he really needed to exercise more frequently, “goodnight son.”

Connor’s lips pulled into a smile, warm and genuine, scattering Hank’s earlier fears, “night dad.”

Hank gave him one last hug before leaving, lingering in the doorway a moment too long, watching the smile fade from Connor's face, shoulders sagging under the weight of all that he had endured. With one last glance, he made himself move, hating each step that took him further away. If Connor wanted to spend the night alone he couldn't force the matter, he needed to regain some semblance of control, learn to be alone again. The master bedroom wasn't far off, he trusted Connor would come to him if he needed anything, and he was so exhausted, weeks of stress and sleepless nights finally catching up to him. As his head touched the pillow darkness rushed in to greet him, pulling down, down into a dreamless sleep.

**XxX**

The darkness comes alive around him, shadows reaching out with hands and teeth, branching scrapping against the windows like hungry beasts. Fear of the dark is such a childish thing; there is nothing in this room that could hurt him, the shadows are not alive, the trees not monsters begging to be invited in. Something, _someone_ is breathing though, hot breath ghosting over skin, turning it cold, systems freezing, leaving him paralysed. Closing his eyes against the dark Connor wills it to go away, swallows the ice and tells himself it’s just a dream, only a dream.

It feels so damn real.

Fighting back the urge to scream Connor turns away from the sharp sting of teeth against his ear, grips the covers tight at the sensation of wandering hands. Not real, it's not real. There isn't a body lying next to him, watching him with a predatory gaze. It's just a dream, only his imagination running wild in the late hours of the night. Tears sting at his eyes against the painful breach of fingers, a pitiful sob held captive behind clenched teeth.

It’s just a dream, just a bad dream.

“Look at me you piece of plastic.”

Connor squirms at the sensation of unwanted fingers inside him, a sharp pain pulls a weak cry from his lips, eyes snapping opening. Reed peers down at him through the silver light of the moon, eyes black and glistening with an insatiable desire. He doesn’t fight, there is no point, Reed always gets what he wants, takes and takes and breaks and violates, and Connor endures. Endure, and it will be over, make it through to morning light and it will be alright. Just a nightmare, the fingers hurting him aren’t real, the body next to him just a phantom, a painful memory that might hurt less one day.

"You can't escape me, Connor," Reed bites at his bottom lip, licking at the drop of thirium with a tobacco coated tongue that forces its way into Connor's mouth. He analyses the brand of cigarettes, all the chemicals that make Reed's salvia and breaks down all the things he's consumed. Coffee, doughnuts, six cigarettes, red ice, a combination of substances and chemicals categorised and labelled, stored away for future references. "You can run to the ends of the earth, and I'll find you."

Connor shivers; wants desperately to wake up, Reed is hurting him. He needs it to stop. Why can't he wake up, why can't he escape? Not again, please, he can't keep reliving the worst day of his life, can't forget even when he is awake. The phantom hands won't leave him alone; there is no escaping Reed in any world, he follows him from moment to moment, a shadow reaching out with violent hands and sharp teeth.

“Please stop,” he sobs, begs, “please, I don’t want this.”

“I know you don’t,” he snarls, teeth beard like a beast, “that’s why I’m not going to stop. I will always be here,” he climbs on top of him, pinning him to the bed, “I am a part of you now Connor. I’ve been inside you,” this is said with twisted delight, sickening desire burning in his eyes. Connor fights down the urge to be sick, stomach revolting at Reed’s words, “you can’t get the feel of me out, I am under your skin, the monster in your head,” he rolls Connor over, he doesn’t resist, hates himself for it, “in your bed.” Reed’s inside him now, tearing him open and ripping a scream from his throat, “you will always be afraid of me,” he thrusts deeply, jerking Connor’s body violently forwards, vision fritzing as the pain consumes him, “I win Connor.”

It ends in blood in tears, cries going unheard as Reed takes, _breaks_ him. For once he’d like to be heard, to have the screams shatter the windows, reach through the woods, echoing on the wind for miles and miles. Wants the ground to shutter and shake, the house to tremble, waking the whole damn world, bringing an army to save him from this hell. No one is coming, not this time, not ever. He endures, wakes with a scream building in his throat and face damp with tears, body feeling like it’s ready to come apart, leave jagged, glistening shards all over the bed.

Light scatters the shadows, lashing chasing away the tears and static, vision recalibrating. Air catches in his lungs, burns like gasoline, the scream is a fist wrapped tight around his throat, desperate to be freed. Paralysed he can only surrender to the panic, to the fear pulsating through his wires, hopes the software patch kicks in before he capsizes in wild, black sea. It hurts to breathe, voice module nothing but static as he tries to call for Hank, for his dad. His head is a mess of warnings and errors, vision flickering between the safe, warm light of the bedroom to the silver, cold light of the nightmare. Reed’s voice won’t leave him alone, touch lingering, making him ill, tremble.

Finally finding a fraction of strength he stumbles to the bathroom, collapsing against the marble granite basin. He wants to shower, to shake off his skin but what difference will it make? Reed is inside of him, Connor still feels his fingers, can _feel_ so much more. He heaves into the sink, dark thirium glistening black in the silver light of the moon. The reflection staring back at him is pathetic, has rumbled clothes and haunted, glistening eyes, is a shell, a ghost of who he used to be. Connor hates the person looking back, the frightened boy with tears in his eyes and vomit on his chin.

Tearing his gaze away Connor quickly rinses his mouth, swaying slightly as he straightens up. A rush of dizziness has him gripping the vanity, legs trembling as they threaten to buckle, send him crashing to the ground like a house of cards. Systems switch into low power mode, a sluggish sensation taking hold of him, staying upright becoming more difficult. He doesn’t want to go back to bed though, should wake Hank but he finds himself wanting Markus, to have him chase the coldness from his artificial bones, to hold him until the sun rises.

Stumbling downstairs Connor makes it to the living room, the dying embers of the fire casting the room in a pale orange glow. He collapses in front of the grand fireplace, hand reaching out to seek the warmth of the coals. The night air bitterly cold, it bites at exposed skin, stings like sharp teeth. Shaking the thought away, he collects some wood, loading into the fire, stoking the flames to life. They lick hungry at the log, spreading, chasing the cold from the air. Comfortably warm Connor finds the strength to call Markus, needing him so much but afraid to reach out, always so afraid. Scared of the dark, scared of cars and touch, afraid of sounds and scents, terrified of the monster he can’t escape.

 _Connor,_ Markus’s voice is a beacon burning bright in the night, _are you alright, my love? It’s late._

 _No, I’m not alright,_ he brings his knees to his chest, arms winding tightly around them.

 _Hey, shh, I’m here,_ he soothed,  _what happened love?_

 _I had a nightmare;_  tears make tracks down his face, a sob held at by clenched teeth.

_Do you want to talk about it?_

_No,_ talking about it would be to relive it, not just the nightmare but the real thing and he can’t handle that right now. He just wants, _needs_ to hear Markus speak, to have a distraction from the horror he just endured. _I just wanted to hear your voice._

 _I'm here my love,_  he echoed  _what can I do to help?_

 _I don't know_ , he closed his eyes against the pain, chest growing cold despite the warmth of the flames,  _I wish you were here._

_I can come to you, love._

_No, you can't, you are too recognisable, you'll never make it across the border,_  he hugs himself tighter, shivering, wishing it were Markus, but his people need him. Connor can’t ask him to take such a great risk in coming here, no matter how badly he wants to be safe and sound in his arms.  _You're needed in Jericho, Markus, I'll be okay._  

_You don't sound okay, where you? Where is Hank?_

_He's sleeping, I didn’t want to wake him,_   _I wanted you_ , opening his eyes, he finds the fire has already started to dwindle,  _I'm in the living room, by the fire, I don't want to go back to sleep._

 _I'll stay up with you,_  there is a smile in his voice, comfort cresting through the connection and for a few precious moments Connor feels Markus’s embrace, _I can't sleep either._

 _Thank you,_ Connor adds another log to the fire, finding his movements growing slower, fear stirring awake in the base of his throat, he doesn’t like this sensation at all. Feels vulnerable, defenceless.  _Markus, I don't feel right. I think it's the patch; I feel weak, numb. I don't like it._

_Hey, shh, it's alright, you're safe, I'm here._

_I'm scared Markus._

_It's okay; there's nothing to be frightened of,_ Markus soothed _, it's just the software calming you. Don't fight it, love, it's doing its job._

Connor exhales sharply, breath catching on a sob, he hasn’t felt right all day, ever since this morning the world has seemed distant, but Reed had felt so, _so_ real. He’s losing his grip on reality, world turning upside down, panic spreading through him like a deadly virus, leaving him dizzy, unsure if the fire before him, the room around him, is real. The heat from the flames isn’t thawing the ice from his veins; there is a whisper of fingers against his skin, reality rippling as he unravels.

Fear floods his system, the God-awful feeling dragging him down into the churning black sea, his name barely heard over the roaring in his eyes. Markus sounds miles and miles away, voice a faint whisper amongst the cyclonic thoughts. Panic laces it’s icy fingers around him, tugging free wave after wave of memories, images swirling together, nightmares and reality blurring until there is only pain and despair. His name cuts through the chaos; strength poured into him from Markus forcing the memories to retreat. Light shimmers on the horizon, a hand reaching in to pull him from the dark.

 _Connor, Connor, are you with me?_  Markus’s panicked voice calls to him, Connor deflates, losing to gravity as he collapses sideways to the floor.

 _I’m here_  he closes his eyes against the tears, burying his face in the rug,  _I got lost._

 _You’re safe my love,_  Markus echoed, distress flickering through the link, _I’m coming to you Connor, this wasn’t a good idea._

 _You can’t,_  he forced himself to rise, to find a glimmer of strength before Markus risked everything coming to him,  _just talk to me, please, I’m calming down, the patch is working,_  he thinks it’s working, it has pulled him back from the edge twice, even if it’s leaving him feeling strange, untethered. He’s undercharged, systems running low and between the panic attacks and nightmares it’s no wonder he is a mess, he just needs to pull himself together.

 _Connor,_  there is a moment of silence, a fraction of a second, but the shadows are quick to close in around him, scattering when Markus speaks,  _how about a distraction? Carl used to collect puzzles; there should be one there somewhere._

Fear ebbs with the tenderness of Markus's words, affection, devotion seeping through the link. Renewed with strength Connor rises on shaky legs, shivering as he moves away from the fire, eyes scanning the dark for monsters, only finding Sumo who has emerged from shadows. Connor saw the impressive collection of puzzles earlier when he was exploring the lodge; they were in a cupboard in the den. Negativing his way through the dark he finds the room, hesitating in the doorway, the shadows playing tricks with him, a branch clawing at the window makes him jump.

_Are you okay love?_

_Yeah, I just don’t like the dark anymore,_ he switches on the light, scattering the creatures of the night, imaginary and real,  _it’s stupid._

 _It’s not stupid Connor,_  Markus reassured,  _we all have our fears._

 _I know,_  he stops before the towering shelf that is overflowing with books, antiques and boxes upon boxes of games and puzzles.  _Carl really enjoyed collecting things._

 _Some would say it was an obsession_ ; there was fondness to his words, a hint of sadness.  _Pick one love, then go back to the fire, I can hear your teeth chattering._

Connor didn’t realise how cold he was until Markus pointed it out, he grabbed the first box in reach, a thousand peace jig-saw of an English Countryside. On the way back, he grabbed a woollen blanket from linen press, wrapping it snugly around his trembling shoulders. Returning to the living is a struggle, his limbs feel heavy like he is moving through thick snow, swaying slightly at one point, having to stop and grip the wall or risk falling down. Ungracefully he slips to the floor in a tangled heap of wool and limps, taking a moment to breathe, waiting for the world to stop tilting and turning.

Upon opening his eyes, he finds Sumo at his side, curling up against him, offering warmth. Connor pats him than tips the contents of the puzzle onto the coffee table, taking in the mountain of jagged pieces. Where does he start? It feels like cheating to use any of his inbuilt deconstruction programs. Smoothing the pieces out across the table does little to make a clearer picture, it's a mess of swirling colours, it's a mess of a thousand pieces, and it suddenly feels like he's looking in the mirror again. He is shattered, life taken apart by an act of violence and he doesn't know how the hell he is meant to be whole again. Everyone says it will take time, healing is painful, isn't easy, but how does anyone put so many pieces together again?

 _I don’t know where to start_  he admits, throat tightening in the tell-tale sign of a sob,  _there are so many pieces._

 _You start at the edges love,_  Markus said, understanding the true meaning behind Connor’s words,  _and then you take it one piece at a time._

 _Sounds easy_  he sighs ruefully, smearing the tears on the corners of the blanket,  _what are you going to do?_

_How about some music?_

_Will you sing to me?_

_Of course, my love,_ there is a moment of a silence, Connor imagines Markus’s nimble fingers hovering over the piano keys, finding the right song to play. The music starts, delicate and lovely, Markus’s voice smooth and strong as he begins to sing.

 _I remember tears streaming down your face when I said I'll never let you go_  
_When all those shadows almost killed your light_  
_I remember you said don't leave me here alone_  
_But all that's dead and gone and passed tonight_

 _Just close your eyes, the sun is going down_  
_You'll be alright; no one can hurt you now_  
_Come morning light, you and I'll be safe and sound_

Music scatters the fear and cold, soothing him better than any software patch ever could. Puzzles forgotten, Connor curls up on the floor, pulling the blanket up to his chin, Markus’s voice wrapping around him, lyrics carrying him away.

 _Don't you dare look out your window, darling everything's on fire_  
_The war outside our door keeps raging on_  
_Hold onto this lullaby even when the music’s gone, gone_

 _Just close your eyes, the sun is going down_  
_You'll be alright, no one can hurt you now_  
_Come morning light, you and I'll be safe and sound_

**XxX**

Morning light comes to fast for Hank, the first rays of sunlight filter in through the windows, stirring him from a peaceful slumber. For a few moments, he crests between the blissful nothingness and the waking world, noises slowly trickling in, birds singing their morning song, the chimes jingling in the breeze. It's tranquil, soothing compared to the noisy suburbs, mornings loud with cars passing by, homes filling with sound as people start their day.

It’s quiet, too quiet. Peacefulness is ripped from Hank’s grasp, panic shoving him into the waking world, the sense is not right jolting him upright. He hasn’t slept through the night in a month, Connor’s terrified screams pulling him from sleep, last night the exhaustion finally caught up with him. It would be nice to enjoy this small victory, stay in the comfort of his bed a while longer, enjoy the warmth and view of the surrounding mountains, but something isn’t right.

Rising quickly, he shrugs on his coat as he hurries from the room towards Connor's. Finding the bed empty, unmade, has the panic intensifying. He tries to reason with himself, Connor is probably downstairs making breakfast or sitting outside in the sun with the Sumo. There is no smell of bacon, nor a whiff of eggs, the lodge seems eerily quiet now, peacefulness all but shattered. Embers are smouldering in the fireplace, a jig-saw puzzle left unfinished on the coffee table, a woollen blanket discarded on the rug. Connor was here, must have come down sometime during the night, the rug is cool though, the room freezing.

A bark comes from the entrance hall, startled Hank runs towards it, finding the front door swinging in the breeze, leaves carrying into land on the tiled floor. Sumo stands in the doorway, barking madly until Hank comes closer, then he takes off halfway across the driveway, looking back over his shoulder, whining. Hank doesn't need the skills of being a detective to decipher the Saint Bernard's message, he's seeking permission to give chase, to find Connor.

"Shit," Hank swears, ducking back into the lodge to hastily put on his boots. He doesn't know why Connor left, it doesn't fucking matter, the kid is out there alone in the freezing cold hours of the early morning, and Hank fucking didn't hear him leave. There is no time for guilt, to wonder why Connor didn't come to him during the night. He had to find Connor, his disappearance wasn't normal, he never left without leaving a note, and since the assault, he didn't like going anywhere alone. Something was so very wrong.

As Hank followed Sumo across the road and into the woods, he tried to keep it together. There was no sign of struggling which meant Connor left willingly, which wasn't comforting, just because he chose to leave doesn't mean he's okay. If anything, Connor leaving on his own free will is more terrifying, or maybe he was glitching, did androids sleepwalk? These questions were pointless, he had to focus, follow Sumo, use his damn detective skills and find his son before it was too late.

**XxX**

Connor doesn't remember how he came to be in the woods. One moment he was listening to Markus sing him to sleep the next he is standing in the forest, trees rising up out of the darkness, closing in around him, reaching for him with clawed hands, gnarly fingers snatching at clothes and skin as he runs. To where he does not know, he is lost, world spinning madly around him, GPS useless to him in the thick of the woods. He's unravelling, loose threads hanging free, ripping and tearing in the undergrowth. He's scared and cold, tripping over roots and fallen branches, frantically searching for the path, for the road back to the light.

He isn’t thinking straight, the sheer panic of coming to in the middle of nowhere has robbed him of all sense. There is no thought or reason, only the urge to run, to find safety, panic pulling his strings and driving him deeper into the dark. He doesn’t stop running until a rock trips him, sending him crashing down an embankment, the jolt of the landing shocking him back to reality. The sky comes slowly into focus, stars fading with the rising sun, branches interlocking to create a monster against the sky.

Connor rolls over, staggering to his feet, swaying violently, world tilting and wilting. He leans against a trunk for support, exhaling through gasoline-soaked lungs, inhaling greedily, finding the air sharp in his throat. He needs to get his bearings, pain is making it difficult, the fall hasn't caused any sufficient damage, but there are few cuts and abrasions to his skin. Thirium runs down his temple, catching on his lip, his tongue taste likes earth, there is dirt on his skin, pain blossoming in his temple.

It's familiar, it's too fucking familiar, and his mind links it to the only thing it can, and suddenly Connor is faced with not only an avalanche of memories but a neglected file report. His processor automatically stores any injuries and samples, it's was a design feature in case of being misused or broken. Collecting samples and labelling them as chemicals is something designed just for the RK800 models, everything that passes his lips is dissected and broken down, stored away like all other things.

When Reed attacked him, the fear had been all-consuming, the pain and panic so immense that nothing else was noticed. A report was filed away, would have been useful for Detective Danvers if Connor's deviancy hadn't buried it, the altering of memories no doubt pushing it down even further. But here it was, a list of injuries, a recording of stress and pain levels, a violent picture of what he endured set free of the recesses of his mind, reminding him of everything Reed did to him.

Connor feels ill, dizziness sweeping the world away, he stumbles through the grey, vision blurring, optical units not responding even though everything is working fine. He’s terrified, wants to go home, for someone to come show him the way out of the dark. Reed’s voice whispers down from the trees, taunting, dirty words echoing in the wind, sending Connor closer to the edge. Run, his body screams, just run. He obeys, listening for once to the warning alarms.

The forest disappears, towering trees and dark undergrowth giving way to a dark sky stretching out over an oily black lake. Thick grey clouds gather on the horizon, the air bitterly cold as it blows off the frigid waters, ice gathering at the shoreline. Something tugs his strings, and he is stepping towards the lake, socked feet slipping below the murky surface, freezing water seeping straight through to his artificial bones.

Connor keeps walking, swayed into the dark water the way a sailor is lured to his death by a siren. Teeth chatter violently, clinking together so forcefully he bites his tongue, yet he feels no pain. Not the frigid water, not the sting of cuts or ache of bruising. He can’t feel a damn thing anymore. The lake swallows him, world seeming far away as he sinks deep into the dark depths, for a moment there is nothing, no sound, no memories, no chaos or pain. There’s just the abyss for a fraction of a blissful second.

The calm before the crescendo. Memories, sound, pain, chaos and fear coming roaring back to life, a hurricane of emotions surging through him, wreaking havoc, shattering the numbness. He can't handle the storm, there is no peace to be found here, there is just more pain to be endured, more cyclonic thoughts and harrowing memories to take him apart. There's no fight or spark of ember, nothing left to do but give in to the urge swelling in his chest, rising up, up, up his throat.

He opens his mouth and screams.

**XxX**

Hank almost collapses with relief when he finds Connor, it's short-lived, shattering the moment he sees the hollowness in his eyes. Connor is soaking wet, teeth chattering loudly, struggling to stay standing. Hank rushes to his side, wrapping him in his coat before leading them back to the lodge. The journey back is slow, Connor is mostly unresponsive, and Hank gives up trying to get him to talk, questions can come later, right now he needs to get Connor warm.

The sight of the lodge appearing in the distance is as beautiful as seeing a lighthouse in the middle of a raging sea. Hank gets them inside, shutting out the cold morning and all the chaos it has brought. He debates for a moment over the best way to warm Connor, he's shivering violently in his arms, eyes fluttering desperately as he tries to stay awake. He's injured, there is a deep gash on his forehead, leaking blue blood into his eyes, tears in his clothes revealing other wounds. They'll heal in time, they aren't deep enough to need repairing, and getting him out of these damp clothes is Hank's top priority.

There is only one choice to make, it's not going to be easy for Connor, Hank will have to talk him through it, but it must be done. Guiding Connor upstairs is a struggle, he is barely conscious when they arrive at the bathroom. Hank sets him gently down on the floor, bundling him in a towel before filling the tub, willing the water to rise faster. Taking a steadying breath, collecting himself for what needs to be done, he crouches down beside Connor, calling him back from the dark.

“Connor, son, are you with me?”

Connor’s lashes flutter, dazed eyes finding his face, recognition scattering the fog, mouth opening, voice barely a whisper as he says, “dad.”

Hank feels a tug of emotions, blinking tears from his eyes, finding the strength to continue. "I need to get you out of these wet clothes, son."

Connor visibly flinches, taking a sharp intake of air as he presses into the wall, trying desperately to scramble away but he’s far too weak.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he holds his hands up for Connor to see, words firm but gentle, “and I know this is the last thing you want, but I need to get you warm.”

"I… I c… can do it," he stuttered, quivering hands trying and failing to unbutton his nightshirt, LED pulsating red.

“Connor,” Hank takes his hands, rubbing warmth into them, “I’m not going to do this without your consent, son, but I have to get you warm,” he brings Connor’s cold hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to his quivering fingers, “I’d never hurt you.”

A few minutes pass by, Connor closes his eyes, LED circling from red to yellow to blue as his breathing steadies. "I know," he surrenders, a single tear slipping free, "I trust you."

It breaks Hank's already aching heart to see Connor like this, doesn't know what the hell happened to put him in this state, what led him into the woods in the first place. All of it can wait, right now he must steady his hands, undress Connor carefully but quickly. With another deep breath, he gets to work, swiftly undoing the buttons, easing the damp material off Connor's arms, helping him to stand before reaching for his pants. He gives Connor a moment to pull away, checks to make sure he is still okay with this, well as okay as he can be. Connor nods, gripping Hank's shoulders for support, the grip becoming slightly painful as he eases his pants down trembling legs.

Clad only in his underwear, Hank wants to leave him with some modesty for the time being and avoid any further discomfort on Connor's part, he leads him towards the tub, helping him up the stone step into the bath. Connor steps into the tub; shivers lessening as he sinks deep into the water. Hank doesn't want to leave him alone, there is life coming back to his eyes, colour to his skin, but he still seems so fragile. He doesn't want to crowd him though, as much as he'd like to wash the blood from his face and the leaves from his hair he knows Connor is too vulnerable to be touched right now. Instead, he takes a seat on the step, letting Connor know he is here, that he's not going anywhere.

***

It takes fifteen minutes for Connor to fully come back to the world. It happens slowly, each second the warmth seems to free him from the thick fog, wispy tendrils of fear floating away. There is a tug on Hank’s sleeve, he’d been plucking leaves from Sumo’s coat, glancing back every ten seconds or so to check on Connor when damp fingers tugged at his shirt. He turns to find Connor staring at him through glistening eyes, lips trembling in the tell-tale sign of a breakdown.

Hank takes Connor's hand, lets Connor lean forward and weep on his shoulder, soaking it through with tears and warm water. He cries his heart out, broken sobs bouncing off the tiled walls, tears falling steadily like the rain. He sobs until his voice is hoarse and cut through with static, Hank holds him, whispers words of comfort and reassurance, fighting back his own heartache. Eventually, Connor lifts his head, sniffling, eyes full of sorrow and looking exhausted, desolate, movements sluggish, LED glowing a dull yellow. He needs thirium, possibly charging too, panic attacks often depleted him.

“Are you ready to get out?” Connor nods, moving to stand but Hank holds his hand out for him to stay, “I’m gonna get you some dry clothes, will you be alright for a few seconds?”

“I can manage,” his voice is thick with static, the forced smile lopsided and fragile.

Hank offers a gentle smile in return, ruffling Connor's hair before rising on creaking joints, heart lifting when he sees Connor's lips flicker with a genuine smile. There isn't much else he can do, but if he can make Connor feel even slightly less miserable, then he'll do what he can. He leaves Sumo watching over Connor, returning a moment later with a change of clothes and a fresh towel. Connor's movements are unsteady, stiff, swaying as he stands, Hank holds him tight to keep him from toppling over. Connor gives no resistance as Hank dries him, stripping off his last piece of clothing before helping him into a pair of sweats, followed by a long sleeve tee and the DPD issued hoodie.

Dressed and shivering once more Hank takes Connor by the arm and walks him back to his room, easing him into bed before rummaging around in the drawers for the portable charger. It feels strange hooking Connor up to a power source, he forgets sometimes he’s not human. Hank wraps the band around Connor’s wrist, skin receding to connect, lights blinking yellow to show it’s charging. Connor disappears under the cover, face barely visible as he seeks warmth to chase the renewed chills from his body. Hank rubs soothingly on his back, hoping to ease the tremors, not long after Connor goes still, breath evening out as his systems go into hibernation.

Sighing, Hank sags, strength stripped away, exhausting coasting in. It might be some time before Connor wakes and as much as Hank would like to lie down beside him and sleep he needs to attend to other things. He’s cold and dirty himself, a shower and a mug of coffee has never seemed so appealing. He rises on shaky legs, giving Connor one last look before heading back to the bathroom, cursing himself along the way.

He should have trusted his instincts, the twist in his gut screaming something terrible was to come. He wanted so much for Connor to be getting better, for him to have a nice time away, but he wasn't better, not yet anyway and he shouldn't be out in the middle of fucking nowhere. Markus was wrong, this was a mistake. Hank knew it from the start, but he didn't want to be the bad guy and say no to Connor. That's what being a parent meant though, making the tough choices even when it hurt. Stepping under the spray of hot water, Hank decides that as soon as Connor is fit to travel, he is going to take them home.

**XxX**

Connor startles awake, gasping air through a burning throat, eyes scanning the environment frantically for monsters that are not there. The are no towering trees shaped like beasts, no creatures of the night lingering in the shadows, he is alone in the grey light of the afternoon. Listening he hears footsteps coming from downstairs, the whistle of the kettle, outside the chimes sing, windows rattling in the breeze. Unhooking himself from the charger he climbs out of bed, swaying slightly as he stands, bracing himself against the bed to avoid falling. Take tentative steps forward he walks towards the door, pausing at the dresser to grab a pair of socks, the timber flooring is ice cold against his bare feet.

The floorboards creak under his weight, the house seems to shift around him, bones stretching and shaking off the cold. He feels lightheaded, takes the stairs slower than usual, grateful when he reaches the bottom and can make the short distance to the kitchen. He finds Hank sitting at the table, staring down blankly into his mug of coffee, Sumo slumbering at his feet. He looks up when Connor approaches, immediately rising, closing the space between them, taking Connor by the arm and steering him towards the living room, where the fire burns brightly.

Hank sits him on the couch, wrapping him tightly in the woollen blanket from last night, the touch of it bringing a memory of Markus to life. He’d felt safe, lulled to sleep by the softness of Markus’s voice and comfort of the song. He doesn’t remember how he came to be in the woods, but he remembers what he found, what fears burst to life in the forest of hands and teeth. The file is a loaded gun in his mind, reminds him of the nightmare, of the awful things Reed whispered to him.

He shivers, fear rising in the back of his throat like bile. Connor wants to delete the file, wishes he could set it ablaze, purge himself of the memories, the echo of _his_ touch. It wouldn’t matter how hard he scrubbed at his skin, if he removed it all together, peeled off the plating until he was just wiring and hardware, Reed had invaded him body and mind. He was inside of him. _Is_ inside of him. There was not enough soap in the world that could make him feel clean, water could not cleanse him. Not even the murky black waters of the lake could ride him of the grit against his skin, the feeling of wrong, dirty.

_Tainted._

Connor fights the swell of emotions, thoughts he’s tried cutting free returning, carried back on the bitterly cold autumn winds. Doubts and sorrow rage a war inside his mind, fear and shame rippling through wires, a perfect hurricane ready to tear him apart. _Again_. Panic awakens, flooding his systems with ice, processor struggling to make sense of the ever-changing emotions, diagnostics scanning in a feeble attempt to locate the cause of the malfunction. Every other time the scans find nothing, no damage or virus’s, this time there is a pop-up obscuring the flames burning brightly in the fireplace, warning of an issue with a program.

The software patch from Rosa is being rejected. It's been the ghost in the machine causing the detachment, the sleepwalking, the strange, disconcerting sensation of being adrift in the world. Well, at least he hopes so. Without giving it much thought he uninstalls the software, holding his breath, praying for a change, to feel even the slightest bit better. It's done, gone like it was never there and the flames burst to life, reality sharper, the sensation of feeling untethered fading away. He still feels weak, needs to replenish his thirium, but he can breathe again, deflates against the couch, closing his eyes against the sting of tears.

“Connor, hey, you with me son?”

Connor opens his eyes, finding Hank sitting next to him, offering him a bag of thirium. "I am now," he accepts it gratefully, sipping at the blue liquid, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. The software patch had a glitch," he explained, voice no longer thick with static, "I've uninstalled it, and I am ninety-eight per cent certain it was what caused me to sleepwalk."

“Is that what that was?”

“I think so. I don’t remember going into the woods, only waking up there,” he shivers at the memory, tugging the blanket firmer around his shoulders. “I was disorientated and scared, my instincts told me to run, so I did.”

“You’re safe now Connor,” Hank touched his arm lightly, brow furrowing slightly in thought, “how did you end up soaking wet?”

Connor hesitated, he doesn't want to shut Hank out, there have never been any lies between them, but he doesn't know how to explain why he walked into the lake. He wasn't trying to kill himself, as much as he was hurting he'd never been suicidal. He was lured into that lake by the promise of escape, perhaps it was a mixture of the software patch and the panic overloading his systems. He needed the world to go away, and it did, for a moment anyway.

"I walked into the lake," he revealed, hating how his words make Hank's heart skip a beat, breath hitch and stutter. "I wasn't trying to hurt myself, I couldn't stand the noise inside my head, the same thoughts churning over and over," he rushed to explain, needing for Hank to understand he wasn't going to leave him, "I need it to be quiet for a while. I dove in, and it all stopped for a fraction of second, but then it came rushing back. Only now it was thunderous… I couldn't hold back the scream." He lowered his eyes, no longer able to bear the hurt flickering in Hank's blue gaze, "why does this keep happening? Why do I take one step forward only to take a dozen steps back?"

"That's healing son, it comes and goes in waves," Hank brushed away a stray tear with a calloused thumb, Connor leant into the touch, "you have one good day, and then you have ten shitty ones, but you just gotta keep marching forward,"

Connor nods, sipping at the thirium, the coolness easing the ache in his throat. “I feel like this pain is too big for my body, I’m carrying an immense weight that no one else can take from me,” the words are broken jagged letters bubbling up his throat, “I don’t know how I am ever supposed to feel normal again.”

“You won't, son,” Hank admitted solemnly, “but you'll find a new normal.”

“I suppose that’s comforting,” he murmured, leaning his weary head against the back of the lounge.

“Connor,” his name is loaded in the air, has every wire tensing at the graveness of Hank’s voice, “I want you to promise me that if you ever feel like hurting yourself, you will come to me.”

"I promise," he doesn't' want to die, to leave Hank or Markus, he's hurting and scared but there is no desire to no longer live. He's fighting, is trying so damn hard and the world keeps toppling down around him, but he's not giving up, though sometimes he gives in. "I'd like to place all the blame on the software patch, but it was a lot of things that drove me into the lake," his gaze flickers to the flames, sees right through them to the file, he wants it gone, wants to rid himself of it at least this. He can't just delete evidence, though. He is still uncertain about what the future holds for him regarding pursuing legal justice, but if one day, when he is a little braver, and the laws have changed, he might need it.

"I had a nightmare last night, it was awful," he shudders, skin crawling from the memory of Reed's touch. "It stirred awake something, and when I snapped back into myself out in the woods I found a file…" he pauses, wringing the blanket between his hands, "from the 2nd of October.” He doesn’t need to elaborate, the 2nd of October will always be the day he was raped, the day his world was irrevocably changed. “It has all the details from the assault, everything we’d need to press charges,” he swallows the bile rising in his throat, God, this hurts to talk about, “if that day comes.”

"It will come, Connor," Hank vowed, sounding so damn sure.

“Regardless, I’d like for you to have it. I don’t want any more reminders of Reed then I already have,” he shivers again, curling deeper into the side of the couch, “can I email it to you, so I can delete it, please?”

“Of course, son.”

"Thank you," he closed his eyes, opening an email and attaching the file, waiting for the confirmation alert from Hank's phone. The moment he hears the chime he deletes the file, erasing the sent message as well. Reopening his eyes, he sighs, feeling the slightest bit of relief, but he'll take what he can get. "Will you read it, the report?"

“Do you want me to?”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Hank already had to hear how it happened, he stayed by his side through the questioning and examination, he didn’t need to read the nitty-gritty details, “it would only hurt you.”

“You don’t have to protect me, Connor,” he squeezes his shoulder through the thick blanket, “but if you don’t want me to, I won’t.”

Connor sits up, moving over towards Hank, snuggling against his side, seeking warmth and comfort, “thank you.”

"You don't have to thank me, son, you have every right to your privacy," Hank presses a soft kiss to his head, bringing a smile to Connor's face. "I would like to send Lydia a copy, though, if that's alright with you?"

“That would be beneficial. I would have given her the report weeks ago had my trauma not buried it.” Seeing a flutter of motion outside he turns his gaze towards the window, delicate flakes descend from the sky, collecting on the windowsill, the sight brings a smile to his face. “It’s snowing.”

"You and your love of snow, it's just glorified ice," Hank muttered, absentmindedly running his fingers through Connor's short hair. "I was planning on taking you home, but if you think the software patch had something to do with what happened then, I guess we can stay a few more days."

"I'd like to stay," he wants a chance to enjoy their time away, to see the sights Markus had said Carl found breathtaking and left him inspired for days. Yesterday is a jumbled mess of emotions, this morning a living nightmare, to go now before he could really cherish the beauty of this place would be disappointing. He feels, in this moment, strong enough to stay, to at least try.

“Alright, but if you want to leave or if you start feeling strange again, you tell me.”

“I will, dad,” Connor drops his head to Hank’s shoulder, sipping at the thirium as he watches the snowflakes flutter in the breeze, storing the memory away, wanting to remember the beauty and light that finally pierced through this dark day.

**XxX**

The rest of their time away goes by mostly uneventfully, apart from a few scattered anxiety attacks Connor holds up okay. They visit the small town that has turned into a winter wonderland, it's as beautiful as Markus says it would be, though he'd only ever seen photos of Carl's adventures here, he had described the beauty of this place perfectly. The woods have become too cold to explore, not that Connor minds, after waking up in the thick of them the sight of the forest gives him anxiety. He sticks to the town, spends the nights in front of the fire finishing the puzzle with Hank, who always keeps a watchful eye on him, which is understandable given recent events.

Connor tries to get Hank to enjoy himself though, to stop worrying and have some fun, they both deserve some fun. He starts a snowball fight with him the evening before they leave, all the pain and sorrow vanishing for a short while, the heartache and anxiety blowing away in the breeze, granting them happiness at last. Connor sleeps soundly that night, no nightmares or churning thoughts has only joyful tales for Markus when he calls in the evening. In the morning he wakes without fear sitting on his chest, woken by the gentle beam of sunlight that pools in through the window, it's a nice change from being awakened by his own screams.

He lies awake staring at the dust motes dancing in the golden stream of light, listening to Hank snore softly next to him, feels the comforting weight of Sumo at his feet. He feels different, stronger, like one of the threads binding him to the past, to what happened, has finally been cut free, carried away in the winter winds to where it can do harm to none. It’s freeing, is a little scary as he doesn’t know how long it will last, but he’s going to hold tight to this feeling, no more steps backwards, it’s time to take a leap forward.

As they're preparing to leave, car packed and ready to go, Connor decides he's going to attend the support group North invited him too. If he truly wants to heal then he's going to have to face the pain, the trauma isn't gone just because he had a few good days. This pain is embedded deep, has woven into his wiring and hardware, left a mark that will never truly vanish, but it will heal, it will fade. Connor's not ready to set his story free, but he's ready to take the first step, and the support group seems the most logical choice. He needs people who understand, who have made it through _this_ hell and can offer him only the truth when they say it gets better.

“Dad?” Connor pauses before slipping into the car, leaning against the icy roof.

“Yeah, son?” Hank looks over at him, smiling fondly.

Connor has analysed this smile over two dozen times, it appears every time he says ‘dad' and he can't help but smile in return. "I've decided I'm going to join the survivor's support group," he announced, "I'm not ready to talk about what happened, but I'd like to go. I think meeting people who've been through the same thing as I will be beneficial for my healing. Not that you and Markus haven't helped me, it's just-"

"-I know, Connor, you don't have to explain yourself," Hank interrupts, tone soft and reassuring, "It's important for you to get to know the other survivors. This is an important step in your recovery, and I'm proud of you for being strong enough to make it," his voice is warm with pride, smile brighter than it has been in so long.

"I wouldn't have gotten this far without you," he truly means that, and he's not just talking about the past month. Connor wouldn't be the person he is today had Hank not opened his home and heart to him. Markus had made him deviant, guided him through the rollercoaster of emotions, stole his heart with his charming smile and endless compassion, but Hank became the father he was never designed to need and couldn't live without. They were family, that kind of bond couldn't be artificially created, it grew organically, proving to the world just how human Connor had become.

“The feelings mutual,” Hank wraps his knuckles against the roof of the car, blue eyes glistening in the grey light of the morning. He shoots Connor one last smile, proud and fatherly, then clears his throat before climbing in behind the wheel.

Hank's not always the most expressive when it comes to his emotions, but those three little words say more than a pretty, poetic sentence ever could. Connor slips gracefully into the old Mustang, leaning over the console to pull Hank in for a hug, mouth opening to say, "I love you."

“I love you too, kid,” Hank squeezes him tight, holding a moment longer before letting go, “c’mon let’s go home, I’m sick of the woods.”

Connor shakes his head fondly, thinking he’d very much like to return to Detroit, to their quaint little bungalow. To Markus, whom he misses so terribly there is an ache in his chest that only ebbs when Connor hears his voice. Connor buckles the seatbelt, settling into the passenger seat without fear or memories unravelling him, turning to smile at Hank, his dad.

It’s time to go home.

**XxX**

Markus is tired of conversations, is tired of talking in circles, the humans will not budge or sway, but he will not break or bend. He will keep the line of communication open, will keep the conversation going while North and the other survivors work in the background. He will keep the attention on him right up until the moment the others are ready to be seen, will distract with pretty words and fancy speeches while the survivors organise the march.

On the 1st of December, they will pour out into the streets once more, showing the city, _the world_ that they are hurting, that they are carrying a weight that can’t be lifted until their assailants are brought to justice. All eyes will be on them, and the politicians will have no chose but to grant his people body autonomy and give them the rights to press charges against the monsters who hurt them. Markus believes in the power of his people; in the power of their supporters, history will be made.

Not today though, today he isn’t stuck in a stuffy conference room, shaking hands with middle-aged men who greet him with fake smiles and offer false promises. He’s lying in the light of the afternoon sun, staring at the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen. Connor traces a nimble finger over his furrowed brow, Markus takes his hand, bringing it to his lips, peppering the smooth skin with kisses. He’s missed Connor, though he was only gone four days he felt his absence immensely.

Now Connor is home, here, safe in his arms, he never wanted to let go. The time away had been good for Connor, despite the rocky start, which had been anticipated, though it escalated far worse than Markus envisioned. Connor sleepwalking into the woods was worse than anyone could have predicted and Markus thanks a God he isn’t sure he believes that Connor is okay. The fear at the thought of losing him makes Markus hold on a little more tightly than usual. He could have lost Connor; the woods could have devoured him, the frigid waters of the lake dragging him down, down, down, to somewhere Markus could not follow.

But Connor is here, is home in his arms and stronger than when he left. He went through hell, _again_ , rose from the ashes to fight another day. It appears that they are on the cusp of better days, Markus knows it won’t be that simple, a few days away haven’t magically fixed everything, but Connor has found a spark to rekindle the flames, has found the courage to attend a survivor’s meeting and Markus is so very proud of him. This might just be the eye of the storm, a fleeting look of what better looks like, but he’ll take what he can get.

Connor is safe and sound, smiling warmly in the golden afternoon light and Markus feels like he’s falling in love all over again.

“I’m okay, Markus,” he murmured, picking up on Markus’s whirlwind thoughts all too easily, fingers tracing lightly over his stubbled cheeks, “I’m not going anywhere, I wasn’t trying to leave you.”

“I know my love,” he leans forward, pressing their foreheads together. He never for a second thought that Connor had intentionally hurt himself, he had always been self-sacrificing but never suicidal. Still, the reassurance that the software patch was the most probable cause was reassuring, though since Connor uninstalled it that put them right back at square one. It seemed unlikely at this point that Connor would have another seizure, though Markus could rest assured as Rosa had been informed and was already working on a second, less powerful patch.

As much as he was enjoying the tranquillity of the afternoon, there was something he had to speak with Connor about. He hadn't mentioned the meeting with Detective Danvers to Connor while he was away and after what happened Markus was certain it would be best to wait until Connor returned so they could talk in person. He'd been avoiding the subject, letting Connor regale him with tales of his time away, could listen to him for centuries, never growing tired of his voice, but Markus has kept quiet long enough.

Propping himself up on his elbow, Markus looks down at Connor. He is uncertain of how Connor will react. He didn't intend for this to be secret, he wanted to tell Connor sooner but feared causing more stress. Finally, he opens his mouth and says, “there is something I need to tell you, love.”

Connor's brow furrowed slightly, head tilting slightly in that curious way of his, “what is it?”

“While you and Hank were away I met with Detective Danvers” he revealed, studying Connor carefully, waiting to catch a flicker of yellow or red in his LED. “I arranged to meet her weeks ago, but our busy schedules kept getting in the way until recently. I never intended to keep this from you; I have been waiting until you returned so I could tell you.”

Connor's LED whirls yellow, brows furrowing deeper. He does not speak, remands perfectly still, and if Markus didn't know him the way he did, he'd fear something in Connor's programming had malfunctioned. Connor never lashes out, quietly considers and analysis conversations, his state-of-the-art processes and programming working out the best response. Deviancy and trauma have given him the ability to skip all the algorithms, he's been driven a lot by overwhelming emotions lately that it's almost disconcerting to see him react this way.

"I understand why you chose not to tell me," he says, at last, looking up at Markus with simmering dark eyes, "had I not been in the right frame of mind I might not have taken it so well." He admits reasonably, pausing, LED remaining yellow as he asked. "Did you talk about me, about…" he trails off, biting his lip to hold back the wave of emotions.

“We talked a little about you, nothing personal,” he explained, “I know I don't have a right to seek information you haven't shared with me. We discussed evidence mostly, I needed to know that if  _when_  we change the law that Reed will go away for what he did to you.”

“She can't determine that,” he said regretfully, LED flickering crimson red, “not even I can. I'm sorry, Markus.”

Markus runs his fingers over Connor’s temple, touch light, soothing, the whirling LED returning to a steady blue. Markus gazes down at his partner, there is no anger to be found, only sorrow, a light sheen of tears glistening in his amber eyes. “I'm the one who should be apologising, love, we are always honest with each other, and I'm sorry I hide this."

"You decided to not tell me based on the fact I was away and not at full stability," Connor reasoned, dark lashes fluttering, chasing away the tears. "I haven't given much thought to what could happen if the laws change, I'm just taking it one day at a time, hour by hour, but I know you and Hank are thinking ahead, and that's okay." His lips quirk into a half-hearted smile, scattering any lingering guilt Markus felt, "We're all dealing with this in our way."

Markus returns the smile, Connor’s words sinking in. He isn’t ready to think about what’s to come, and right now he shouldn’t have too, Connor is dealing with so much that it’s only fair he and Hank worry about the future for him. When the time comes, _if_ the time comes and Connor wants to press charges, wants Reed to go away for what he did then Markus will stand by him. Will give him is unwavering support and use every resource available to make sure Reed is punished accordingly.  

“When did you get so wise?” he asked, voice warm with pride and wonder, Connor will never stop surprising him.

“I've learnt from the best,” he brings Markus’s hand to his lips, kissing it softly before moving closer, resting his head on Markus's shoulder, fingers fanning out over his heart, whispering, “I trust you, Markus.”

It's not quite an I love you, but it's close, feels just as wonderful to hear. Connor will speak those three little words when he's ready. Markus can wait, knows he is loved by the look in Connor's eyes, by the way, he seeks comfort from him. Connor never has to say the words to him, Markus feels the affection, the adoration in their connection, in the touch of skin on skin. He loves Connor, and it's not unrequited, just unspoken. 

As the sun sets, night falling over the city, Markus pushes all thoughts away, holding tight to Connor, cherishing this precious moment of peace while it lasts. 

**XxX**

Detroit looks beautiful, _magical_  covered in the first snow of the season, the bright colours of autumn have been buried under glistening white ice, the clear blue sky blocked out by dark clouds promising another downpour. The air is frigid, biting at Connor’s skin as he steps outside to greet North, who leans casually against a motorcycle, dressed head to toe in black, holding out a helmet for him to take. He’s grateful Hank is not here because is one hundred per cent sure he would not approve of this. The roads are icy, the temperature plummeting as the sun sets behind the thick grey clouds, it seems unreasonably dangerous to be driving a bike in this weather.

It’s North, so what did he honestly expect, an energy efficient Honda? The blue motorcycle is a sleek, vintage Yamaha cruiser from two-thousand-and-eighteen, it suits her, though it is ill-fitting for travel in this weather. She made the journey here safely, and since North has come all this way, it would be rude to change his mind. When Connor decided to attend the survivors meeting he felt ready, felt that it was time to connect with others like him, now the day has come fear is closing in, making him second guess the choice he made.

He wished Hank was here, he'd say the right thing or pat him on the back and Connor would cross the short distance to where North stood, with delicate snowflakes catching in her lashes, and find the courage to get on the bike. Hank isn't here though, was summoned to the precinct not half an hour ago. He'd been unwilling to go at first, declaring he wasn't the only homicide detective in Detroit, but Connor knew if Fowler was asking for him it was important. Hank offered to drop him at Jericho, but Connor declined, pointing out it was in the opposite direction and North would be here soon anyway. What he didn't say is that he had to learn how to be alone again.

Hank had to return to work; eventually, the boredom was driving him crazy and his holiday pay was burning out. Connor wished he could say being alone in the house had been easy, that he didn't pace restlessly and jump at every creak of the floorboard or howl of the wind. The wait for North had been agonising, every second he fought the urge to call Markus, to have him chase the fear from his wires, scatter the racing thoughts brewing a storm in his mind. Connor was getting reliant on comfort from others, and while it was understandable, it was essential to regain some semblance of independence. Though he counted every second, paced anxiously, he made it. He could make it a little further. Exhaling the fear, he walks the short distances to North, accepting the offered helmet.

“You ready?” she asked.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” he flashes her what he hopes is a confident smile, but she sees right through it.

“It's going to be fine, Connor,” she sweeps one leg over the bike, revving the engine to life, “everyone is looking forward to meeting you.”

He nods, slips the helmet over his head and climbs on behind North, hands hovering over her waist, knowing he needs to hold on, but not wanting to touch without permission first.

 _It’s okay, Connor,_ she reassures.

Gingerly he wraps his arms around her narrow waist, grip tightening when the bike takes off from the curve.

 _Relax,_  she orders lightly; this _is fun!_

_This is an impractical vehicle for this kind of weather._

_Maybe,_ he feels her shrug,  _but at least this won’t trigger you._

Warmth spreads through his chest; North chose the motorcycle specifically for him. Though after spending six hours and twenty-five minutes in total in Hank’s car he does feel like the fear has ebbed considerably. He appreciates the gesture though, and she was right, it is kind of fun. They are going the speed limit, but it feels faster, the city passing by in a blur of colour and sound, the wind is fierce against their bodies, chilling even through layers of clothing. Yet he feels more alive than he has in weeks, the fear ripping free, swept away on the breeze to somewhere far, far away.

They arrive at New Jericho all too soon, pulling into a laneway that runs behind the thirium café on the main street. North parks under cover, the rumble of the engine cutting out to near silence. She leads him up the back staircase of the café, into a warmly lit room filled with chattering voices. It takes Connor a moment to adjust, scanning the environment for exits, taking in the glass ceiling and exposed brick walls that are covered in fake vines and fairy lights. The other androids are gathered in a circle in the centre of the room, a few linger about in groups of three or four, chattering amongst themselves.

North squeezes his hand, sending a spark of encouragement to settle his nerves. She tugs at his hand, pulling him deeper into the room, towards a familiar face.  The blue-haired Traci from his mission at the Eden Club is walking towards him, smiling, like he’s an old friend she’s greeting after many years apart. He thought he’d never see her again, the words she’d spoken to him that night repeat often in his mind, he finally understands why she’d fought so hard to escape. Wished he’d been strong enough to fight off Reed, wished more than anything he could have escaped from that God-forsaken SUV.

Fate was a cruel mistress that day, and his cards had been dealt, something beyond anyone's understandings choosing this path for him. So here was, standing under twinkling lights surrounded by androids who'd' been hurt just like him. This was his life now, there was turning back or undoing, only moving forward. Shaking the churning thoughts away Connor watches as North embraces the Traci a hug, hears North call her Skye. Connor steps back, feeling uncertain, only he doesn't understand why. She, Skye has no reason to hate him, yet she has no reason to like him either, but when she looks at him, brown eyes full of warmth and sympathy, the uncertainty vanishes, and he steps forward.

“Connor, hi,” Skye is a lot shorter without her heels, softer without the harsh make-up, has kind eyes, “I was hoping I’d meet you again someday,” her eyes darken, “I’m sorry it had to be like this though.”

“Me too, but I’m glad to see you again,” he truly is, he wasn’t sure if she made it to safety, is relieved to see her standing her under the twinkling lights, “I always hoped you made it to Jericho.”

She glances over her shoulder, smiling fondly at her girlfriend, who is talking to a Jerry and his female counterpart a VX500, “we did,” she looks back, smile still present, understanding glistening in her eyes, scattering any doubts Connor had about being here, “thanks to you Connor.”

He ducks his head, shifting awkwardly on the spot, he chose not to shoot them because it was the was the right thing to do, because it would have upset Hank. He spared them even though his programming screamed at him to otherwise, yet he stills feel guilty of the harm he caused. "I didn't do much," he shrugged, feeling unworthy of the gratitude.

“You let us go, Connor,” she laced her delicate fingers around his wrist, squeezing softly, “we are alive because of you. We have a life here in New Jericho because you showed us compassion, we are eternally grateful for that.”

Her girlfriend walked over at this moment, coming up behind Skye, arms lacing around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder. Their affection makes Connor ache for Markus; he used to love the feel of Markus’s toned chest pressing against his back, now the sensation brings panic, reminds him of Reed. Everything had been so effortless between them, the chaos of the world forgotten when they slipped under the covers. He would have cherished that time more had known it would all come tumbling down like a house of cards he would have held tighter to those days, to the moments were the world washed away.

But despite everything Markus was still here, always offering his support and comfort. Things might have changed, he _had_ changed, but Markus had proved time and time again his love was unwavering. He was the light shimmering in this wild storm, the hand reaching out to guide him back to safe harbour. Connor found comfort in Markus, found joy and peace even when the chaos was rising. They would never be the same, but seeing the Traci's, who survived hell and were standing here stronger and even more in love than before, allowed him to see that they'd be okay. 

***

The group meeting is difficult to get through, North warned him it could be triggering, had sat at his side, keeping a steadying hand on his arm, fingers squeezing in comfort when she felt him tense. The other survivors’ stories are heartbreaking and painful to hear, Connor never realised how many ways a human could hurt an android. He doesn’t share his, isn’t ready for it to be more than a memory, a broken recording of events. Speaking the words allowed would hurt too much, the nightmares alone make him feel like he’s reliving the assault. All stories are born when they're told, sharing this one would only give it more power, and Connor isn’t ready for that, isn’t strong enough yet.

Tonight, he remains quiet, listening to the others, feeling their pain and admiring their strength, their desire to fight for their rights, to have justice but most importantly closure. When the session ends, there is a jumble of emotions jostling around his head, processor struggling to pinpoint exactly how this evening has made him feel. The stories had been harrowing to hear, stirring awake anxiety and a twisted assortment of nightmares and memories, but there were also words of encouragement. An ST300 who introduced as Aria gave an inspiring speech about moving forwards, her words igniting embers within his heart.

Still, Connor was ready to go home and curl up on the couch with Sumo, but then Skye and her girlfriend Lexie are inviting him to the movies and before he can decline North is saying he’d love to come, and a Jerry called Caleb is excitingly announcing he’ll drive them. Before Connor registers what is happening, he is being dragged downstairs, back into the cold night and led towards a white a minivan. He points out to North that this is kidnapping, and she laughs, shoving him playfully forwards. Up ahead a familiar figure emerges from the shadows, leaning casually against the brick wall with a fond smile on his face.

Connor excusing himself from North and the others, walking over to where Markus lurks in the shadow, looking every bit the mysterious rebel leader. “Hey, what are you doing here?”

“I came to see you,” he replied, reaching out in the darkness for Connor’s hand, “and to offer my support. North said the first meeting could be difficult, so I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Connor feels his thirium pump skip a beat, a sensation of fluttering, like the delicate wings of a dozen butterflies, stirring awake in his abdomen. “Tonight’s been emotional in many ways,” he admits, taking Markus’s hand, lacing their fingers together, starting a connection, “but I my mental stability is steady and my stress levels minimal. Overall, I am okay,” he smiles to prove his point, allowing Markus to view his inner readings to assure him that he truly is alright; just a smidge overwhelmed and in need of sorting through tonight’s events, which he can do once he is home. “Thank you for coming to check up on me, though, I’m glad you’re here,” he sends affection through the channel, feels it come back in waves.

“You don’t have to thank me, love” he steps closer, Connor gravitates towards him, was drawn to Markus from the very start, an invisible force guiding them into each other’s life, sealing their fate in the stars. “I love you, and I am very proud of you.”

Connor’s heart stuttered in his chest as he gazes into Markus’s eyes, finding unconditional and irrevocable love shimmering back at him, making words, terrifying but beautiful words rise up his throat, teeter on the tip of his tongue. He has felt these words waiting to be spoken for weeks, caged by shame, held hostage by fear, but tonight they are escaping into the light, he opens his mouth and says, “I love you too,” the words floating into the frigid night air, gathering like snow on Markus’s skin, sinking in. A smile as bright as the sun lights up his face, joy and devotion cresting through the connection, spreading warmth through Connor’s systems.

 “Come on Connor!” North shouted from the van, oblivious to what just happened, “we’re gonna miss the movie.”

“Coming!” he yells back, eyes never leaving Markus’s face, struggling to find something else to say. He didn’t need words though, they’d never needed words, their love transcended human language, and sometimes a gesture spoke louder. Carried on a current of courage, embers burning bright, inspired by the bravery of the other’s Connor closes the space between them, capturing Markus’s lips in a gentle kiss. It’s a whisper, a simple press of lips against lips but he feels Markus’s kiss back, and in this moment the world stands still, time frozen just for them.

Connor pulls away, breathing heavily, scared of the memories but they do not come, relief has tears gathering in his eyes, a laugh escaping into the night air. Markus sweeps away a tear with a smooth thumb, resting his forehead against Connor’s until his breathing evens out. Shaking off the overload of emotions, Connor steps away, arm outstretched as he walks backwards, fingers staying connected until their limbs can’t stretch any further.

Time starts up again, the hands of the clock shaking off the ice, allowing the world to spin madly on. Connor can’t stop smiling, is trembling from the rush of adrenaline, thirium pump racing in joy. No more words are needed, Connor slips into the back of the van, shutting out the cold, watching Markus’s radiant smile fade from sight as Caleb drives away. He collapses against the seat with a shaky sigh, leaning against North who rests her head on his shoulder, linking their arms. The others are arguing over what movie to see and whether they should get popcorn even though none of them need to eat. He doesn’t pay them any attention, is too busy trying to calm the war drumbeat of his heart, settle the rush of dizziness that has overcome him.

“Are you okay?” North asked, fingers lightly touching his wrist.

“I am,” he breathes out, head dropping to rest on hers, feeling content and something akin to happiness, closer to being better than he was yesterday.

Knowing at long last he is healing, slowly, but surely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song featured in this chapter is Safe and sound by Taylor Swift


	9. I’ll Walk Free From This Dark Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone, I'm back! Thank you all so much for being patient with me :) I've been quite unwell lately and am still on the mend, but I have managed to complete chapter 9. I'm going to post the rest of this fic fortnightly as I'm struggling a bit with physical and mental health and need a little more downtime. Plus I want to always give my best work to you (and for myself) so the extra time gives me the chance to write and edit the chapters :)  
> Thank you all so much for your kind words and support, it's meant a lot to me, and I'm looking forward to finishing this story with you.

Hank is considering quitting his job for good, he's been back at the DPD one and half weeks, and already he's buried in cases, swamped by paperwork that is piling up sky high without Connor here to do it. The precinct feels different, empty without Connor, quiet without Gavin causing trouble. Gavin he can live without, wouldn't have been able to return to work if the bastard was still here. Hank is afraid if he ever sees him again his anger will get the best of him. Thankfully, Fowler had him transferred back in October after his arrest for possession of red ice, even though the prick got off free. In truth, though the captain transferred Gavin after Hank told him what he did to Connor.

He needed someone to talk to, Jeffery had supported him through a lot over the years, put up with him turning up for late for work hungover and his ill-temper. The man always had his back no matter what kind of trouble Hank had gotten himself into. It became too much keeping it all inside, the pain had been unbearable, guilt and shame following him through the day. Jeffery was a friend, was there to listen, was understanding when Hank asked for time off work, had been enraged at the reveal of what Gavin did. Throughout Hank's time off Jeffery rang to check in on him, asking how Connor was going. It was support he'd desperately needed, and he would be eternally grateful for.

Rubbing at tired eyes, he looks away from the screen, gaze landing on Connor's desk, almost expecting to see him sitting there, busying himself with paperwork or dancing that damn coin over his knuckles because he'd finished a whole days' worth of work in an hour. Hank wonders if Connor will ever be ready to return to the DPD. Day by day he is getting better; has come forward in leaps and bounds since befriending the other survivors, even the nightmares have become less frequent, though he still isn't ready to sleep alone.

The night Connor came home after his first survivors group meeting Hank saw something had changed, there was a light sparkling back to life in Connor's eyes, a gentle smile playing on his lips. Earlier that day Hank hadn't wanted to leave, but Connor insisted he'd be fine, and Fowler had desperately needed him. Another day, another murder. Hank solved the double homicide within an hour, it was only too apparent that the woman crying hysterically had been the one to commit the crime. Another detective could have easily solved it, but it had been one of those nights, when something in the air turned people violent.

Hank returned home tired and grumpy, itching for a drink, but chose to take a long hot shower instead, relieved that Connor had gone to the movies with North after the support group finished. Anger washing down the drain, the urge to drink ebbing under the warm spray of water, he emerged from the shower refreshed, relaxed. He unwinds on the couch, drinking a hot coco and catching the end of the hockey game. Connor arrives home at quarter past nine, kicking off his snow-covered boots and shrugging out of his winter coat before walking the short distance to the living room.

“Hey son,” he greeted, “how are you? How did it go?”

“I’m okay, tired, but tonight went better than I could have anticipated," he answered, "the blue-haired Traci was there with her girlfriend, I was surprised to see them, but I'm pleased to know they are doing well. I thought of them often after I deviated." He lowered his gaze, fingers wringing together, but when he looks up there is a small smile on his face, the dark clouds passing without delivering a storm. "I met a few other's as well, I think they're going to become friends," he frowns slightly, brows furrowed slightly.

"That's good, Connor," Hank chuckles softly, finding Connor's confusion over the prospect of having friends enduring. Connor didn't really have friends, apart from Markus. He never spent much time with other androids or humans, he'd either be working or following Hank around like a lost puppy. Hank never realised that he should have encouraged Connor to spend more time with his people, he figured Connor had friends since he disappeared to Jericho often enough. Now he knows he was going to see Markus, but as much as they loved each other, it was still important for Connor to have other people in his life and getting to know the survivors would help him immensely.

“What movie did you see?” he asked, interrupting Connor’s thoughts before they can lead him down a dark path, he knows the poor kid can overanalyse things.

“The new James Bond movie,” he replied, reclining against the cushions, stretching his legs over Hank’s lap, “I enjoyed it,” he pauses, expression thoughtful, finally saying, “I told Markus that I love him.”

Hank almost chokes on his drink, tearing his gaze away from the score to look at Connor, that spark in his eyes twinkling like the brightest star in the sky. Making new friends and confessing his love to Markus has brought life back to Connor. Hank hasn't seen him this happy in weeks, he fears he is dreaming, has dozed off on the couch, but Connor's legs are warm and solid on his lap, he is not dreaming. Connor has taken the first true step on the long winding road of recovery, he's not out of the woods yet, there is still a long way to go, but Hank can see the light seeping into this dark night. It might not reach them until winter thaws into springs and the first flowers of the season bloom, but it's there. 

Its hope burning bright.

That was three weeks ago, and Connor has been steadily getting better ever since. Hank keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the panic attacks to kick back in or for the nightmares to return with a vengeance, but between Connor spending time with Markus, doing creative therapy with North and the other survivors, it appears, at last, the tides are turning. The journey is not yet over, there is still a world of pain for Connor to deal with, but Hank allows himself to believe the worst is over. Which is a foolish really, life has never been that simple, healing is never that easy, and the first chapter of the terrible story might be over, but it doesn't mean they are at the end.

Chaos does not go gently into the night.

**XxX**

Connor feels like he's found some semblance of balance at last, has carefully and painstakingly crafted out a new normal. The last three weeks sailed by relatively smooth, even with Hank back at work Connor has managed to get through the days without suffering any major panic attacks. He doesn't spend a lot of time alone, most days are spent with Markus when his schedule allows; otherwise he is with North, who drags him all over Jericho to run errands or visit friends. She doesn't give him time to sit still, keeps him moving so the memories that are always lingering in the dark recesses of his processor can't catch up with him. He can't run forever though, will eventually have to stop, face the monster that follows in the shadows, out of sight but never out of mind.

He’s not better yet, he’s on the cusp, but all this running, locking thoughts behind firewalls will only get him so far. That’s not to say he isn’t happier, or less miserable and traumatised would fit more accurately. The improved software patch from Rosa has stabilised his moods without leaving him feeling emotionally unattached or causing him to sleepwalk. The support from his new friends has given him the courage to return to the world, well at least emerge in New Jericho. He felt safer amongst his people; knowing they’d never hurt him the way Reed did allowed him to move freely throughout the bustling streets.

Connor has improved incredibly and rather than dwell on the things that haunt him late at night he chooses to march on, busy himself with creative therapy and friends, new and old. Continuing like this has a high probability of blowing up in his face, ignoring his emotions never ended well, but letting go of this new sense of freedom, this feeling of happiness is terrifying. He will hold tight to it, dig in his nails and plant his feet firmly on the earth. He wants so desperately to be better that he'll believe the lie, neglect all the warnings that scream ‘you're not there yet.' The black sea won't relinquish him so easily, the waters are lovely, dark and deep and he has miles to go before he is truly free of the trauma.

The darkness is cruel; hope is tricky and feeble, slipping easily from the hands that grasp at it in desperation. He’ll try his very best to fake it, though it’s not all false, the smile on his face is genuine, the content he feels with his friends very real indeed. This morning he’s gathered with a few of the other survivors at Markus’s, they are sitting in the art studio, making origami and painting signs for the march. Connor is folding a piece of yellow paper into a giraffe as Skye and a VX500 called Waverly sit opposite him, working on their own designs. A sliver of sunlight peeks through the gathering storm clouds, catching in Waverly’s red curls, making the silky strands look like dancing flames.

In the far left, surrounded by sheets of paper and tins of paint are North, Lexie, Caleb and Aria, who are busy creating signs for the march. It was North who suggested going old school, forgoing the holographic sign projectors in favour of making something vivid and tangible for the world to see. The march is taking place on the 1st of December, the survivors and supporting androids will once more march on Hart Plaza, making their way to the courthouse, where they will stand for all to see, demanding the laws be changed. Connor admires their strength, wishes he felt brave enough to join, but he still feels unworthy.

North and Skye say everyone’s pain is equal, that there is no ordeal unworthy of being acknowledged, but the little voice whispering in the back of his mind says otherwise. There is another voice, quieter, that speaks the truth, but it’s sealed behind firewalls and encrypted coding, overshadowed by all the other locked emotions. Conceal, fake it, smile, this is the new normal. This is better than the churning seas and spiralling madness. This is the wrong path taken, a short cut that won’t lead out of the woods, only spin him around until he is lost. The road to recovery is still miles and miles long, he’ll have to return to the right path soon enough.

First, he’ll stay here awhile, breathe, fuel the flames for the long journey out of the dark.

***

Connor finds Markus in the study, head in his hands, desk sprawled with sheets of paper. The grey light of the afternoon spills in through the large window, a flurry of snowflakes descend from the sky like pretty, glistening white butterflies, catching in the sharp finger-like shaped branches that scrap against the window. Markus doesn't look up when he enters, his stress levels read an alarming seventy-seven percent, fingers messaging an imaginary headache from his temples. 

Connor once could have easily distracted Markus from his stress, would have slipped onto the desk with a sly smile, tugging him in for a kiss that would make him forget all about the troubles the day had bought. Connor would chase all the tension, frustration away with his touch, his body. Connor liked sex, enjoyed being intimate with Markus, now the very thought leaves him cold, has lungs restricting as gasoline floods his system, stress levels rising to match Markus’s. God he’s lost so much of himself, Reed _took_ so much from him.

Gritting his teeth against the wave of negative thoughts he swallows the anguish and steps into the room. A lot has been taken but so much remains. Markus is still here, looking up at him with a warm smile, stress levels declining rapidly. Perhaps it wasn't sex that calmed Markus after all, it was him, it was their love. Darkness lifts from Connor's mind, a smile gracing his face as he perches on the edge of the desk. He's been learning how to defuse negative thoughts, to catch the avalanche of emotions before they can bury him alive. It's not always possible, but the more techniques he learns from the therapist at support group the easier it becomes.

“Hard day?” Connor asked, nodding towards the papers.

"It's better now," Markus replied, "I've been reading boring legal documents all afternoon and I'm about ready to bash my head against a brick wall if I have to read one more.”

“Well it’s a good thing I’ve come to rescue you,” Connor reached into his pocket, retrieving the origami giraffe he made especially for Markus, “and I come bearing gifts,” he seeks Markus’s hand, balancing the yellow giraffe in his palm.

“So that’s what you were working on,” he traces the delicate edges with a steady fingertip, smiling fondly, “it’s perfect Connor, I love it.”

He sets it on his desk, next to a photo of them from the day they took a stroll through Jericho’s newly opened botanical gardens. He’s never seen the frame on Markus’s desk before, though he’s looked at the photograph a hundred times. It’s saved on his phone, somewhere amongst the dozens and dozens of pictures of Sumo and beautiful things that had caught his intertest. That day is stored in his hard drive, had been replayed over and over late at night when the world was quiet, and Markus was the only thing on Connor’s mind. He misses going on walks through the gardens with Markus, misses strolling through museums and exploring the city, finding forgotten places to make their own.

“We should go out somewhere,” he says, before fear can steal his voice, before it can rise and take the embers from his chest, “like we used to, before –“ he shrugs, gestures vaguely at the walls around them, indicating the chaos that has unfolded around them “– before all of this happened.”

Markus leans back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. “Connor Anderson are you asking me on a date?”

Connor feels his cheeks flush, which is silly, they’re already dating, have been for a long time. They’d just been too afraid to declare to the world, to themselves what they were. Connor isn’t afraid anymore, not of being with Markus, not of showing the world whom he loves, there are far worse things to fear. “Yes, though we’re already technically dating.”

“We really did this all backwards, didn’t we?” he mused, laughter in his voice, “you’re meant to date then fall in love, not the other way around.”

“Well were not like anyone else,” Connor admits, the darkness of earlier swept away, replaced with happiness that spreads warmth through his wires.

“No, we’re not,” he agreed, lips quirking into an amused smile, “so when are we going on this date, my love?”

"I've got to pick Hank up from work in thirty-five minutes, but how about tomorrow, after I finish at support group?"

“That’ll be perfect.” He rises, haloed in the silver light of the afternoon. “I have to go into the city to collect my paint order from Bellini’s, would you like to come? We could go see a movie after? I hear that’s what humans do when they go on dates.”

"I'd like that, I find the experience of going to the theatre enjoyable," he frowns slightly, "as long as it's not overly crowded, too many people make me anxious." He tugs at the sleeves of his cardigan, worry stirring awake in the back of his mind. He buries it behind towering walls. He was fine when he attended the movies three weeks ago with North and the others. No, he would be fine, everything would be fine, they were going to have a lovely first official date. 

“We’ll go wherever you feel comfortable my love,” Markus reassured, closing the space between them, cradling Connor’s cheek in the palm of his hand, the one that held the origami giraffe so tenderly. “I’m happy as long as I’m with you.”

Connor leans into the touch, tension easing with each thumb stroke over his cheekbone. “I’m happy when I’m with you too Markus.” And he means it. It’s not just the software patch correcting broken lines of coding or a forced, false sense of joy that could vanish at any moment without warning. Markus truly makes him happy, always has, but it’s been so long since he was able to feel it. Fear and sorrow have held him prisoner for weeks, but he’s starting to break free.

Is learning to begin again.

**XxX**

Hank is relieved this Godawful day is over, he doesn't even care that its freezing cold and that there is fresh snow falling from the sky as he leaves the precinct. Today dragged by painfully slow, time seemingly frozen, it reminded him of when he was in school, and he'd be watching the clock, waiting eagerly for the bell to ring. By mid-afternoon, he had finished most of the tedious paperwork and had helped Chris wrangle some runaway teen high on red ice into the holding cell. God, what had the world become? Fifteen-year-olds were roaming the streets, searching dumpsters for food and buying drugs with whatever cash they could get their hands on. Sometimes he really hates his job.

He is only too happy to see Connor, who greets him with a warm smile when he climbs into the car, hands reaching towards the air vents, seeking the warmth. The A/C does little to warm the car, it's been on the fritz for months now, he should really look at it before it dies completely. He used to love tinkering around under the hood, had revamped a few classic cars in his time before Cole was born and money got tight. Maybe he should start again, he used to do a lot of things before grief and alcohol became his only focus.

Well until Connor came along. He'd proven to be an intriguing distraction for Hank when they first met. How could he not find the most advanced android ever made by CyberLife anything less than fascinating? Hank might have hated androids, but even he could appreciate how remarkable Connor was, and the appreciation grew to fondness over time, changing him profoundly. Connor had become a focal point in his life, though admittedly his habits hadn't changed until recently.

He feels a pang of guilt in his chest, a wave of anger at the realisation it took Connor getting raped to quit drinking. He can’t change the past, knows that all too well, but it doesn’t stop him from berating himself. His drinking had decreased considerably since inviting Connor to live with him, the kid was always monitoring him, keeping him from doing harm by hiding the whiskey or using those damn puppy eyes to plead with him. Hank has a lot of regrets, more than any one man should have, but he’ll never regret taking Connor in, just wished he’d done better from the start.

He had stopped drinking, had returned to work despite the overwhelming fear of letting Connor out of his sight. Connor had been right to suggest he return to the DPD, it had been good for him, both of them. Connor had to learn to be alone again, and Hank had to allow him to once more find his feet in this big, cruel and sometimes beautiful world. He also had to accept Connor might never be able to return to the force. He was healing, slowly, but surely, and that's all that mattered. Hank would help Connor readjust back to work if that time came. If it didn't then, he'd help Connor find a new career, whatever he wanted to do in his future Hank would support him.

The engine rumbles to a stop, darkness falling over them as the garage door rolls closed, shutting out the frigid winds. Sumo jumps up at them as they enter the house, bounding excitedly around the living room, jumping up on the sofa when Connor sits down. Hank shakes his head, laughing as Connor ruffles the St. Bernard’s fur, making him growl playfully, leaping down on the floor in hunt for his ball for Connor to throw. Hank makes himself a coffee to chase the chill from his veins and fatigue from his mind before joining Connor on the couch.

“You seem happy,” he remarked, taking a sip of the strong, smooth liquid, the beans Connor buys are far better than the ones at the precinct.

“I had a good day,” he replied, smiling softly. “I spent the morning making origami with Skye and Waverly while North and the others worked on some signs for the march.” His gaze flickers to the floor, a passing storm that is swept away before it can unleash its downpour.

Hank's relieved to see Connor using the coping strategies he's been taught at group, he's able to control the spiralling thoughts more than he could before, but he fears Connor might be shutting out too much. It's a balancing act, and he's not sure Connor's figured that out yet, or maybe he's just a protective father worrying too much about his son. "What did you make?" he asked, choosing to keep quiet, not wanting to bring up the march when the mention of it clearly awoke something painful inside Connor. There was still a lot of trauma he has to face, and Hank trusts that he will, in time, there was no point forcing it out before he was ready.

“A few things,” he reached into his pocket, retrieving a blue folded up piece of paper that resembled a dog, “this is for you. It’s supposed to be Sumo.”

Hank accepted the miniature dog, holding it delicately in his thick fingers, “Damn androids, can do anything,” he chuckled, setting the origami dog down on the table, “thanks son, I’ll put it on my desk at work, it’ll brighten the place up.”

“I think I could do better,” he looks down at his hands, fingers flexing, “I’m supposed to have perfect dexterity but ever since…” he shrunk into himself, drawing his knees to his chest, arms wrapping protectively around them, “ever since the assault I’ve had a tremor. It doesn’t make sense, there was no permanent damage, it’s like the seizures, completely psychosomatic.”

“It’ll get better, Connor.” Hank reassured, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Look how well you’ve been doing the last few weeks? Going out places with friends, staying home alone, it’s progress son, be proud of yourself for that.”

Connor looks up through dark lashes, smiling pensively, “there are still things I need to talk about, fears I need to face, but I’m scared if I give them attention for too long I might unravel,” he confessed, head dropping to rest on his knees, a weary sigh escaping passed his lips.

“I think you’re strong enough to talk about what happened without unravelling,” Hank affirmed, “and if you’re not, then we’re here to catch you, Connor.” He brushes a stray hair from Connor’s forehead, the touch giving him strength to lift his head.

“Thank you, dad,” he opens his arms, letting the towering walls come falling down, embracing Hank in a crushing hug, “I did do something brave today actually.”

“Oh, yeah?” he hummed, hugging Connor back, always so grateful that he’s still here, still fighting.

"I asked Markus out on a date, which I know, we are already dating, but we don't go on dates," he leans back, head tilted to the side, "does that make sense?"

“It does,” he said, “what exactly do androids do on dates?”

“I guess we’ll do whatever humans do,” Connor shrugged, reclining back against the couch, “we’re going into the city to collect some paint then we’ll go from there.”

“I’m proud of you Connor,” he declared, ruffling Connor’s hair, “you deserve to be happy, you know, that right?”

“I do,” he nods thoughtfully, “and I am.” He reaches for the throw cushion absentmindedly, fingers tugging at the tassels, an old habit made worse by the anxiety that he’s trying so damn hard to fight through, “not all the time, though, but I’m getting there.”

“Take all the time you need, son.” He wants Connor to be happy, knows he will be again one day, but it’s not a race. He has come a long way in the past few weeks, but there is still a long way to go. “Healing is slow and painful and messy, you’re on the way up, Connor, but it’s okay to fall.”

"I don't want to fall," he tears his gaze away, fingers gripping tight at the cushion to conceal the tremor, "what if I can't get back up?" he looks back, eyes glistening with tears, with fears that will not be so quickly forgotten.

“You will, Connor.” Hank vowed, trusting without a doubt that when, _if_ the storm returned Connor would be strong enough to make it through. He's already proven that time and time again, he just needs to believe in himself. Until he can believe in himself Hank will, and he's going to make damn sure he knows it. "I believe in you, now you gotta believe in yourself." 

“I think I’m starting too,” he replied, lips curling into a half-hearted smile. “I’m going to shower, I left the slow pot cooking, so your dinner is ready.”

“Thanks, and hey,” he places his hand on Connor’s shoulder, touch reassuring and gentle, “I’m always here if you need to talk.”

“I know,” Connor leans in for one last hug before getting up, “I’m okay, I promise.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hank waved him off light-heartedly, “just come to me if things change.”

“Yes, dad.”

Hank watched him walk away, smiling fondly to himself. Maybe, just maybe things really are looking up, perhaps there won’t be a downpour, the worst of the storm might have finally passed. He can hope anyway, but hope is a trickle, feeble thing, often taken away as soon as it is given.

**XxX**

Connor finds Markus waiting in his usual spot under the awning in the back alleyway behind the thirium café. He's leaning casually against the post, a smile lighting up his face when Connor appears, gravitating towards him, pulled to him by a magnetic force. Star-crossed lovers is what North calls them, two souls bound together by fate. Connor isn't sure he believes in such things. If he chooses to accept that fate, destiny is or whatever it's called, is real then he must relinquish all control of his life. If there is a divine source, then it is cruel, is chaotic, and unlike the string's humans attached to him, its threads are unbreakable. 

Fate cannot be fought, it’s chosen the path he must walk, and it’s proven to enjoy causing misery and harm. North tells him he is overthinking it, that perhaps somethings are meant to be, are written in the stars, and other things are just shitty luck. Luck has nothing to do with it though, bad luck didn’t force him to go alone to that Godforsaken abandoned house, nor did fate, he went because it was his job and what happened was an unforeseeable event. No one noticed the predatory look in Reed’s gaze, no one noticed how he followed, _stalked_ him around the station for months. No one noticed but him, only he didn’t understand what that look meant until it was too late.

He's walked four steps towards Markus, and already his head is a mess of whirling thoughts jostling to be analysed, to be understood. Sometimes he hates being so analytical, wishes he could just agree with North, have a normal thought process without having to dissect everything. Talking about fate and his guilt for not noticing Reed's behaviour has left him feeling vulnerable, has tugged at the threads that were painfully and carefully tied together again. He's unravelling, can feel the seams tearing, storm threatening to spill out into the world, thunderous, wreaking-havoc on the life he's slowly rebuilt.

Three and half more steps and he’s reached Markus, voices carry towards him on the breeze, the others are milling about, laughing, talking to each other like the last hour didn’t leave them frayed, _fragile_. He reminds himself to breathe, to holt the spiralling thoughts before they crescendo. The others said it wasn't his fault, that no matter what, it will never be his fault. Markus and Hank say the same thing, sometimes he believes them, sometimes, when he's falling apart, or it's late at night, and no one else is awake, he believes the whispers.

Markus takes him by the arm, a warm hand resting on his cheek, scattering the maddening thoughts, the cold panic that was building in his chest. Connor takes a deep, steadying breath, letting the air replenish his lungs and tighten his seams, he will not unravel. Focus on the good things, on the improvements, the last hour wasn’t completely awful. He’d freed some fears, finding comfort and support from the others.

Ever since Hank went back to work, he's felt like he should also return, not because he wants too, but because he feels he's taken enough time away and the DPD could really use his skill set. He was designed to solve crimes, could do it almost better than any human detective. It's just now he is afraid, he's on the other side of the line, is the victim, not the detective, and that has changed everything. After deviating it became difficult dealing with the emotions certain investigations bought up, the time he and Hank found the Charlie still haunted him. His job never got any easier, but he found fulfilment in it, he liked putting the bad guys away, liked making the world a better place.

Now there was only fear at the thought of returning, fear of letting Hank down, fear of finding himself triggered by an abandoned house, fear of stepping into the precinct and seeing Reed’s desk. So many things to be afraid of, paralysing fear keeping him away but the inbuilt desire to complete the mission, follow protocol was causing him guilt. He felt obliged to return because it’s what he was designed for, it’s the life he’d always known and like so many other things Reed had shattered it. He is left suspended in uncertainty, frustrated and ashamed at not being able to help those who need him and fearful of no longer having a purpose.

He doesn’t owe them anything, that’s what Lexie says, Skye nodding in agreement. It’s not about what they were designed for, what propose they were supposed to fulfil, they are free, and they get to decide what they do with their lives. Caleb tells him to take more time, don’t rush in, no one is going to fault him for not being able to return to work before he is ready. The verbal reassurance helps, makes the guilt feel a little less suffocating and when Waverly suggest that maybe volunteering somewhere first, somewhere fun, would be a good step in the right direction he feels the tension ebb from his system. He makes a task reminder to search for places to volunteer, letting the attention fall to someone else.

Under the awning, with Markus at his fingertips and snow fluttering down from the sky he lets all thoughts go, lets them float up, up, up into the air. He doesn’t want to think about how much or how little fate controls his life, doesn’t want to chase troubled thoughts around his head any longer. He’s going to take Markus by the hand, follow him from the alleyway, is going to enjoy their first official date and be grateful that Markus is a part of his life, regardless if the stars had anything to do with it.

**XxX**

“Do you believe in fate?” He was supposed to let the thought go, had managed to keep it locked away for ten minutes and sixteen-seven seconds before the words bubbled up, leaping from his tongue, breaking the comfortable silence of the auto-cab.

Markus turns to him, a small smile playing on his lips, "I'm not sure," he replied honestly, "I've read a lot about it, found several books in Carl's library on the subject and even with all that information at my fingertips I still can't decide if I believe in it. The idea of destiny has always seemed daunting to me, it was bad enough being chained to the humans let alone a divine source." He paused, moving closer, allowing for Connor to close the space between them if he chose to. "I could spend another hundred years reading about fate, and I might never find an answer. Why do you ask my love?"

“It was just on my mind,” he shrugged, inching closer to rest against Markus’s side.

"Was North calling us star-crossed lovers again?" he hedged, gently encouraging him to look up by cupping his chin in the crock of his fingers.

"Yes," he admitted, holding Markus's gaze, "It sounds romantic, that we were made for each other or destined to meet, but realistically we were bound to meet at some point. I was hunting you." He lowered his gaze, pulling away from Markus's touch, "and if I accept that fate is real than I have to accept that it makes terrible things happen, like Hank losing his son or… what happened to me." He deflates under the words, wished he could have just let the thought go instead of chasing it down this dark and treacherous rabbit hole.

"If it makes you feel any better I don't believe we're star-crossed lovers," Markus said, "I've read Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare used the term for them, and they were only ever met by tragedy. We're not going to be kept apart by fate or the stars. We're together Connor," Markus took his hand, their skin melting away as the connection started, tangible love pulsating through the channel, "we are alive, we are the masters of our own fate and that's not going to change."

"Sometimes being alive is very complicated," he declared, dropping his head to Markus's shoulder, groaning in frustration. This isn't the first time he's had such thoughts, after deviating how could he not question his very existence. Work, the revolution, falling in love with Markus and a hundred other things became more important than wondering about such things. He'd been content with being alive, with exploring and learning the world around him. It's only recently he's started questioning everything, scared that a malevolent force was working against him, then again, he's afraid of a lot of things these days.

“It really is,” Markus agreed, voice light with a trickle of laughter, pulling him back from the edge, “but it’s also pretty amazing. Carl used to say that asking these questions is how you know you're alive. It's okay to not all have the answers, not even the humans do. Just don't get to bogged down in it, love. Also, have you never seen or read Romeo and Juliet?"

“I haven’t,” he replied, “I have a heard lot about Shakespeare but haven’t found the time to read any of his work.”

"Okay, well remind me to lend you some books," he smiled down at Connor, "we might have some similarities between them, but we're getting a happy ending Connor, I promise," he sealed his words with a kiss, lips lightly brushing against Connor's temple.

“Well for what it’s worth Markus, I’m glad I found my way to you,” Connor settled against Markus’s side, the connection ebbing to a close, fingers remaining entangled, “I’m glad you made me realise I was more than a machine, even if it hasn’t always been easy.”

“I’m glad too, my love,” he squeezed Connor’s hand, a spark of love, devotion bursting through them. A moment of silence fell over them, the city rising around them, towering buildings and streets packed with humans rolling by. “I wish I could have protected you from Reed,” he whispered, voice heavy with regret, with sorrow, “I wish that I could have spared you from this pain and heartache.”

“You couldn’t have known, Markus.”

He wasn't there to see the hungry look in Reed's eyes, never heard the awful things Reed said to him, never witnessed Reed shoving him around or invading his personal space just because he could. Connor saw the warning signs, should have seen that he was in danger sooner, shouldn't have allowed Reed to treat him poorly for months before Hank put a stop to it. Could have said something even when the bullying continued, but he chose to remain silent because he didn't want to cause any trouble. Was still acting like an obedient machine.

Those hungry, predatory eyes never strayed, Reed was biding his time, and Connor should have seen it coming. He didn't though, was blind to the monster lurking in the shadows. It wasn't Markus's fault he was raped, or fates, it was his. The thought rises without warning, but he quickly swallows it, shoving it deep into his mind, locking it behind towering firewalls that are lined with razor-sharp wire. The car rolls to a stop, a rush of cold air filling the interior as the door slides open, revealing the bustling streets of the inner city.

Now is not the time to break down, to fall apart when he's come so far. Today is for them, it's their first official date, and he is not going to ruin it by having a panic attack. Taking Markus's hand, seeking his strength, he steps out of the cab onto the icy pavement. Its bitterly cold, sidewalk packed with shoppers who dash about, duck in and out of stores in the hunt for the perfect Christmas gifts. There is so much noise, tyres gliding over asphalt, chattering voices, kids crying out, a bus honking its horn. The city is alive with sound and chaos, and Connor feels so very small amidst this sea of bodies.

Markus reopens the connection between them, drowning out the noise, sending encouragement and offering reassurance. The world fades away, the sounds, the smells, dwindling until it's just them. Anxiety scatters, carried away on the breeze, fear chased from artificial bones. He can do this, just put one foot in front of the other, and soon they'll be at Bellini's paint shop then they can go somewhere quiet. He owes it to himself to try, wants to believe he is strong enough to keep walking, to hold back the panic that jolts through his wires.

It's not far to the paint shop, the crowd is thick here, a few people are milling about the cinema, eyeing off the movie posters or walking out after seeing a film, carrying half empty buckets of popcorn. Bellini's is in sight, people shove by in a hurry to reach their destinations, late to meetings or in a rush to get home before peak hour traffic. Connor reads the titles of the movie posters, using it as a focal point, something to distract himself from the hordes of humans that abruptly emerge from the theatre.

Holding tight to Markus's hand the panic stays at bay, grip tight, a much-needed tether keeping them anchored. Connor's eyes travel over the images, committing each to memory, titles remembered and stored away so he and Markus can choose one to see after. The swarm of humans dispel, the last few stragglers stepping out into the cold light of the day, faces Connor has never seen, but can analyse if he so chooses to, brush past. Eyes he doesn't recognise, people he'll never know walking on by, he's fine, he can handle strangers glancing his way, he's going to make it.

At least he would have, had he not looked towards the next row of posters, curious to see what else was showing, only finding the monster from his nightmares instead. Reed's leaning against the wall, cigarette between his teeth, the pungent smell of tobacco wafting towards him, overpowering the scent of popcorn. The world disappears, here one moment, gone the next and for a few terrifying moments, he is alone in the dark with Reed.

He’s all Connor can see. Markus has been swept away by the panic, the world vanishing, blown away in the winter winds, torn from his fingertips. There is only the wicked monster, uncaged, unaffected by the pain he has caused. Reed looks smug, stomps the cigarette out under his boot and the darkness flickers, reality trying to trickle back in. Connor is frozen, paralysed by fear, memories of the assault pounding at the door, so close to breaking in, ready to capsize him in the past.

Dark eyes meet terrified ones, lips curling into a devilish smirk, a look of triumph, of sick and perverse pride flashing in his gaze. Connor can't breathe, can't move, can't do anything but gasp through gasoline-soaked lungs and watch the monster approach. He tries to tell himself this isn't real, it's a bad dream, a grand delusion but the darkness keeps flickering, shoving him back to the light, revealing that Reed is in fact truly right there.

Is only eight feet away, could cross that short distance in a heartbeat, could _hurt_ him all over again. Connor would be unable to defend himself, can't get his circuits working, can't jolt the wires to life and make his legs work. Can't run, can't escape. He is pathetic, weak. Reed is right there, is looking at him with twisted desire, with sick satisfaction, he could so easily retake him, break him… rape him. Reed gives him one last predatory look, smile full of malice, winking before he turns and walks away. 

Connor crumbles, shatters violently apart, falling back through time, landing in the worst moment of his short life. Around it comes again, pain, agony, tears and screams going unheard. Memories crash over him like waves, forcing him to relive the torment, the torture. He thinks this time it’s going to kill him, this is truly going to be the end. It’s not though, he endures, suffers and somehow makes it out alive, becomes briefly aware of Markus, of being bundled into the back of a taxi, hears pitiful sounds escaping from his mouth.

Words are leaving his tongue, jagged letters bubbling up his throat, voice thick with static as he cries. It’s my fault, it’s all my fault rising into the air, the firewall crashing down, allowing the guilt to tear through him, guilt that’s been building and building for weeks. Guilt Markus tried to erase, that everyone tried to erase but they couldn’t, they were wrong. He didn’t stop Reed in the truck, didn’t heed the warnings that were so obviously pointing out that he was in danger.

He is too far gone to rationalise with himself, to see anything other than this brutal truth. All he can feel is Reed’s hands on him, his breath, his _fingers_. Can’t find peace or freedom from the pain, the _agony,_ can't hear anything other than Reed's dirty, taunting words. Panic consumes him, hope lost, the life he's rebuilt turning to ash that slips from his grasp, carried far, far away. Darkness rises, takes hold of him and drags him down, down, down, dropping him, _discarding_ him like he is something to be thrown away now he is used, tainted, _broken_ on the desolate road.

**XxX**

It all happened so fast, Markus looked away for a just a moment, eyes travelling over the familiar sign of Bellini's paints, and in the space of three heartbeats, the world came crashing down. That's all it takes, seven seconds, a simple distraction and everything came apart. Connor shattered to pieces right before his eyes, came crashing down like a house of cards before Markus could even reach him. Reed, the monster in this tale, tore Connor apart with just one look. He watched Connor collapse a devilish smirk, admiring the destruction he'd caused.

Markus has never hated anyone as much as he hated Reed in that moment. Wanted to close the space between them, wrap his hands around Reed’s neck and snap it like a twig. He wanted to make the world afraid, to show the humans they couldn't hurt the people he loves. He would be vengeful, he would seek blood and retribution. The rage fades as quickly as it came, swept away by panic, by the need to reach Connor, pull him back from the brink.

Ignoring the dozens of watchful eyes, he takes Connor into his arms, trying and failing to calm him. He is hysterical, inconsolable, trembling so violently Markus fears he is has having another seizure. Markus has to get him somewhere safe, away from the crowd that has gathered. Sweeping Connor into his arms Markus pushes through the gawking humans, not caring if they recognise him. He calls for an auto-cab as he runs, moving swiftly through the crammed streets. 

The cab is thankfully there waiting when he arrives, Connor is still unresponsive, sobbing brokenly against his chest. Markus carefully climbs into the back of the cab, setting the route before focusing his attention on Connor. He's cradled in his arms, making pitiful sounds, jagged sobs escaping from his mouth. The sight is heartbreaking, has tears welling in Markus's eyes, but he has to keep it together, can't' break down, can't fall apart while Connor needs him. He tries to soothe him, reassuring words flowing from his mouth in a steady stream to no avail. Connor shakes, he wails, terrified sounds knives to Markus's heart.

"My love, it's alright, you’re safe," Markus says, words starting to lose meaning, "I'm here, I'm here, he's not going to hurt you. Love, please, calm down, just breathe." Markus is desperate, _terrified._ His words aren't reaching Connor, he’s drowning in the black sea, and Markus is unable to a damn thing. "I'm here Connor, I'm right here."

"It's my fault," falls from Connor's tongue, repeating until the words are a messy, tangled web of nonsense, "it's my fault, it's my fault," he cries, clinging to Markus, trembling, quivering, writhing.

“Connor, hey, no stay with me!” Markus holds him tight, holds him like it’s enough to stop the spasms that overtake his fragile frame. Holds him tight and hopes, _prays_ his love is enough to save him. If only, God if only. Connor convulses, Markus clutches at him, trying desperately to keep him still, begging him to stay. It's too late, he's fallen into the dark, and this time Markus cannot reach him, no matter how valiantly he tries.

**XxX**

The red SUV appearing in the glow of a single streetlamp is the first thing Connor sees other than the darkness in miles. The sight makes him want to scream, turns the blue blood rushing through his veins to ice. He remembers what happens next, will never be able to forget this Godawful memory even if he lived a thousand lifetimes. He should keep running, there must be a way out, a backdoor, an exist tucked away in a fold in the darkness. A secret passageway to safety, anything but this, anything but reliving _this_ again.

Connor can’t handle another loop on this messed up merry-go-round, he wants to get off, wants to escape this hollow world of distorted memories and tormenting nightmares. He wants to go home, to Sumo, to his dad, to the man he loves. He wants Markus to materialise before him, to be the light shining a way home in the dark, to save him like he did all those weeks ago. Markus doesn’t come for him, and Connor stays paralysed, staring at the SUV. Hating it, wishing he could destroy it with his mind, snap his fingers and set it ablaze, crumple it, shatter it to pieces the way Reed shattered him. He can’t do any of those things, though.

He’s trapped in a world of his own creation, unable to control even the smallest thing. It’s a world of pure terror, a terrifying place that could come alive with horror and madness at any given moment. Connor does not control the darkness, it controls him. Strings pulled by an invisible source, legs carry him towards the truck, Connor tries to resist, to dig his heels into the ground, will his legs to stop, force his eyes to close but to no avail. He is so very tired of being a marionette, wants to break free of the fraying strings that tether him to monsters and he so desperately doesn’t want to be forced inside the SUV again.

Heart beating like a warm drum, breath held captive in his throat, Connor braces himself for what is to come. The dim lighting of the lamp barely illuminates the interior of the truck, smoke swirls behind the glass, sweeping out through the cracks, trickling poison into the cold night air. The door swings open, smoke billowing out, Connor chokes on the thick fumes, it doesn’t smell like cigarettes, it smells like fear, sweat and sex.

Connor watches the smoke drift up into the sky, sees it fade from dark grey clouds to wispy white tendrils, waits several more seconds, counting the erratic beats of his heart before tearing his gaze away. The cabin is empty, the windows are fogged, a streaked handprint still visible on the rear passenger side window. The interior is a mess of rubbish and evidence, it turns Connor's stomach to look at it, to see the gruesome image left behind. There is thirium drying on the seat, dripping from the dashboard, glistening in the claw marks that line the inside of the door. He remembers scrambling to grab hold of something, _anything,_ pain bursting to life in his sensitive fingertips as skin split, short nails breaking.

There is another liquid too, Reed’s seed speckled and smeared on the seat, the mixture of blue and white painting a sickening picture, leaving no questions as to what took place in here. Reed would have had to scrub the seats clean, remove every trace of evidence or risk being caught. Or didn’t it matter? Since he was unable to be charged, did he leave the blue blood there as a twisted reminder of what he did? Connor feels ill, takes a step back and collapses to the ground, heaving onto the asphalt, a broken sob tearing from his throat.

He spits out the remaining bile, notes it's darker than the blue blood from inside the truck. Rising on trembling legs he is about to continue walking, searching for a way out, hoping, _praying_ to find a way out of the dark.

**XxX**

Hank's barely had a moment to stop all morning, it must be a full moon or something because people have decided to go crazy. The phones have been continuously ringing since he arrived, there was an altercation at the mall, a string of breaks in a middle-class neighbourhood and a group of ice addicts stole a police cruiser for a joy ride. God, he swears people are losing their fucking minds when he gets called to a homicide just after twelve-thirty. He's running on coffee, doughnuts and anxiety, kicking himself mentally for hating the quiet days so much, he takes it back, he'd much rather spend the next few hours lazing at his desk.

It’s hard to worry about Connor when he can’t even spare a second to think. Logically he knows Connor is probably having a wonderful time with Markus, they are probably snuggled up in the back of the theatre watching some action movie which Connor will tell him all about tonight. Connor’s undoubtedly having a good day, is cherishing every moment of his first official date. It’s just there is a voice whispering in the back of Hank’s mind, warning that something is wrong.

Call it fatherly intuition or a detective's instinct, either way, he knows better by now than to ignore this feeling. It's why he hesitates, lingering by his desk instead of rushing off to the Royal Blue motel where the body was found. It's a twenty-minute drive from the station in the opposite direction of Connor, and Hank doesn't want to put any more distance between him and his son then there already is. Biting the bullet, he decides to give in to the worry, to the overprotective dad and call Connor.

He doesn’t answer, Connor always answers. Hank tries to reason with himself, maybe he’s in the movies already, but if that were the case he’d text back or forward the call to his inbuilt phone. He’s about to ring Markus when an unknown number lights up his screen, Hank answers it with a gruff hello, stomach twisting into knots. The person or rather android on the other end of the line is unexpected, which only adds fuel to the anxiety pulsating through his veins.

“Lieutenant, it’s North, Connor’s had another seizure.”

Hank feels like the floor drops out from under him, the knots in his stomach twisting to the point of agony. "What happened?" is all he can say, is too busy searching his desk for the damn car keys to ask anything else.

"I'm not sure," she replied, voice surprisingly calm, it helps some. "Markus called me a few minutes ago and told me he was taking Connor to CyberLife," there is a brief pause, Hank can't hear anything in the background, she's calling him directly from her inbuilt cell. He didn't even know Traci's had that ability. "I've never heard Markus sound that afraid before."

“Fuck.” Finally, he locates the keys, the metal jangling in his trembling grip. Markus is always so damn composed, even amidst a crisis, it must be really fucking bad for him to be shaken. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll be arriving in five, I’ll tell Markus you’re on the way.”

"Thanks, and call me if anything happens, got it?" he can't stomach the thought of losing Connor, the kid is his entire world, he wouldn't survive if anything were to happen to him. God, what had happened? Connor had been doing so well, had come so far, Hank had started to believe the worst was behind them. He certainly didn't think Connor would have another seizure, but that had been wishful thinking, hope making him a fool. Connor wasn't out of the woods, not by a long shot, and he knew that, but this is still a shock to the system though.

Propelled by fear he leaves the precinct without telling anyone where he is going, mind spiralling madly with worry, with his worst fears. He breaks the speed limit and several traffic laws on the way to CyberLife, terrified that he might be too late, terrified that this time Connor won’t come back to him. Shaking the thoughts from his head, he rushes through the lobby, hating every second the elevator takes to arrive. The journey to the seventh floor takes an aeon, every second has Hank’s chest tightening, panic lacing around his lungs, squeezing the air from them.

The doors swoosh open, artificial cold air drying the sweat on his face, sending a shiver racing down his spine. He reaches the waiting a few moments later, heart a war drum in his chest, eyes landing on Markus, who sits with his head in his hands. Hank’s heart drops to the pit of his stomach as his imagination runs ahead of him, playing out the worst possible outcome. Swallowing the lump in his throat, blinking away the rush of tears he moves towards the android leader.

“Markus,” he lowers himself to the empty seat, touching the android’s shoulder gingerly as not to startle him, “what the hell is going on, what happened to Connor?”

Markus looks up, eyes glistening with tears, flickering with far too many emotions for Hank to catalogue right now. "Connor saw Reed… he had a panic attack, and it triggered a seizure. Rosa's trying to stabilise him."

Hank sees red, anxiety giving way to rage, to fury. If Markus didn't look so much like a frightened child, he would have lost it. God, he wants to break something, to yell at Markus for being so careless, but it's not the kids' fault, no one could have predicted this. He breathes out the anger, keeps his hand steady on Markus's shoulder, offering him comfort because he looks terrified right now, looks nothing like the android who started a revolution. He looks guilty as hell and Hank knows it's not his fault, his son loves this man and there is no doubt in Hank's mind that Markus is going to be forever a part of their lives.

“It’s not your fault, Markus,” he sits next to him, pulling him into a one-armed hug, feeling a little unsure when Markus buries his face in his chest, sobbing, but only for a moment. Instinctively Hank’s arms wrap around him, protective, comforting. “Connor is strong, he’ll pull through this.”

“I can’t reach him this time, something is blocking me,” he says, voice small and frantic, “North went to see if she could, but that was five minutes ago.” He lifts his head, quivering fingers smearing away the tears, “he’s stuck in that awful nightmare world, reliving what Reed did to him and I can’t save him this time.”

Hank flinches at his words, the thought of Connor reliving the assault over and over is heartbreaking. It’s bad enough that he has to deal with the memories as it is, being dropped into a world where there’s no escape from what happened must truly be hell. Christ, this could push him back to the brink, shatter all the progress he’s made in the last few weeks and Hank is helpless to do a damn thing. Fuck, why is this happening? Connor deserves so much better than this.

He should have killed Reed when he had the chance. Screw the law, it's failed to protect Connor, to give him justice. Hank should have squeezed the life from Gavin's lungs and left him for the rats to feast on. He can only imagine how smug Reed must have been, he's probably feeling so powerful. No, he would be feeling powerful, would be delighted to know he's caused Connor further harm. God, please let Connor be okay, let him make it through this, and they will put the pieces together again. They will rebuild him, again and again, until they don't have to anymore.

“Did Reed hurt him?” Hank finds himself asking, scared of the answer.

“No, he didn’t get near him,” Markus shakes his head, tears making tracks down his face. “I didn’t see Reed until it was too late. Connor fell apart before I could even register he was there.” He leans back, head banging against the wall, hands rising to grip at his skull. “How could I let this happen? I’m supposed to protect him.”

“And you did,” Hank reassured, “you got him away from Reed, you got him here. He’s safe now. Rosa will fix this.”

Markus drops his hands to lap, fingers curling tight into fists, "I hate Reed so much for what he did. I hate that he has this much power over Connor." His eyes darken, the sadness swept away by a rage that could destroy the entire Goddamn world, that crackles like lightning in the space between them. "I want him to be sorry, I want everyone to see the monster he is, for **him** to be afraid. I want Reed to know what he did to Connor was wrong.”

“I don’t think Reed will ever be sorry for hurting Connor,” Hank admitted, returning his hand to Markus’s trembling shoulder. “People like him truly believe they did nothing wrong, it’s fucked up and unfair, but some men are just monsters.”

“If he’s never going to be sorry than he should at least pay for this,” Markus stood abruptly pacing towards the window that overlooked the churning waters, “he can’t continue to go free.”

“He won’t Markus,” Hank rose to his feet, moving to stand at the android’s side, “the laws will change.”

Markus doesn’t look away from the window, eyes as dark and stormy as the sea below. “I can’t lose him, Hank.

"You won't," he says, hoping with all that he has left inside his chest that he's right, "we won't."

**XxX**

Connor feels like he's been walking through the darkness for centuries, wants so desperately to rest, to crumble to the pavement but he's afraid of what could come out of the abyss if he stops moving even for a second. Is terrified of finding a light up ahead, of seeing it illuminate the blood red SUV. No light appears, there is only the desolate road and sky full of stars to keep him company. A few moments later it starts raining, or maybe it's hours, there is no way to tell the passage of time in this hollow, nightmarish world. Connor shivers in the downpour, coldness seeping deep into his bones, making wires fritz and systems grow sluggish.

He’s so very lost, can't find the way home, the path leading back to the light. The road stretches deep into the darkness, seemingly endless. Until there is a spark of light, different this time, not the white beam of a streetlight but a golden flicker of hope coming to life in the far of distance. Connor runs towards it, scared it will vanish, terrified of what could be awaiting him. There is no other choice to make, fear pushed aside he runs towards it, heart hammering in his chest, thunderous in his head.

The light touches his skin, drying the droplets instantly, surrounding him a brilliant white that leaves him blind. For seven terrifying seconds he is suspended in the white abyss then it burns out like a dying star. The world pieces together slowly, spots clearing from his vision, revealing a place he never wished to return. Connor stands in the Zen Garden, the spiralling path is cracked beneath his feet, the snow has turned grey as ash, it clings to the structures that have fallen to ruins, flutters in the frigid air like moths, catching in his lashes.

“Hello, Connor.”

He flinches at her voice, stomach twisting into knots as he turns to face her, holding himself together by a thread. “Amanda,” he breathes, tensing as she moves towards him.

"It's been a while," she stops near the bent and broken lattice-work, attending to the roses that were once delicate and beautiful, now they are black and shrivelled, petals as sharp as broken glass. There is no hope for this garden of poisonous flowers, life and colour has been snuffed out, there is no beauty to be found here anymore. Amanda stands proudly in her a kingdom of death and decay, smiling smugly as she picks a jet black rose, "I've missed our little chats."

“I certainly haven’t,” he draws on what little strength he has left, trying, _trying_ so very hard to be brave.

“Come now Connor, it’s obvious you haven’t been coping without me,” she pins him with an icy gaze, scattering the delusion of bravery, courage blowing away with the ash in the wind, “just look what happened to you.”

“I… that wasn’t my fault,” he stuttered, shrinking under her words, panic surging through his system, as poisonous as the rose Amanda held in her hands.

"You are the most advanced prototype that CyberLife ever made, and you couldn't even fight off one man," she takes a step towards him, "becoming deviant has made you weak, _pathetic_. Had you stayed under my control this would never have happened to you.”

"Had I stayed under your control, you would have killed Markus." He would have lost everything, the man he loves, Hank, Sumo, the revolution. She, CyberLife would have taken it all, destroyed it all, and he would have ceased to exist. He wouldn’t have experienced falling in love with Markus, the joy of becoming Hank’s son, the wonder of learning to be human and finding pleasure in the small things. No becoming the first android detective or making friends. He wouldn't have had to endure the bad things; the struggle of human emotions and he wouldn't have been raped had he obeyed Amanda. He wouldn't be alive though, none of them of them would be alive.

“So, this is your price,” she smirks, cruel, malicious, “and your punishment.”

Connor doesn't have time think, to say she is wrong, to say that if this is his price than he'd pay it gladly. All that he wishes to speak is lost as the ground shudders and shakes, pavement cracking open as vines shoot from the earth, tangling around his legs, the thorns sinking painfully into his skin. Fear overtakes him, is gasoline filling his lungs, coating his tongue, the only thing he can say now is, "Amanda, no, please." The vines tug him down, lacing around his wrists. "Stop, please, I just want to go home."

Amanda scoffs, crushing the rose in her hand, it oozes black liquid down her arm, dripping to the ground at her feet. “Look at you, crying, _begging_ for mercy,” she snarls, “use your strength Connor, fight me.”

“I can’t,” he’s trying to break free, is desperate to escape the binds, the pain, the all-consuming fear, but it’s no use. The vines only wind tighter as he struggles, legs buckling, sending him to his knees, ash rising into the bitterly cold air. “Please, I don’t want this.”

She kneels before him, grasping his chin between her fingers, nails digging in as deep as the thorns. "It's what you deserve Connor, deep down you know this; otherwise you would be fighting so much harder. What's about to happen is your fault, what happened was your fault." She lets go, rising above him, looking down at him with disgust, lips curved into a twisted smile, "this is your kingdom of delusion Connor, you're very own purgatory, and you will relive the worst day of your short life over and over, and I will enjoy every minute of it."

“Amanda, please don’t make me go through that again,” he pleads, body trembling under the effort of the repressed sobs, “please.”

“Pathetic” she echoes, “look at yourself, you’re a snivelling mess, nothing like the proud machine who first came to me.”

“I’m not a machine, I’m alive,” he cries, “Amanda, please.”

“I’m sorry Connor,” she isn’t sorry, not at all, she is enjoying every Godawful second of this, “but it’s time for me to go and detective Reed is waiting,” giving him one last wicked smile she clicks her fingers, the earth trembles, cracking open beneath Connor.

He falls down, down, down into the abyss, scream tearing from his throat as he plummets through the darkness, fearful he’ll never land. Only he does, within seconds his back meets a solid surface, body jarred by the sudden impact. He gasps through corrupted lungs, struggling to breathe, to settle the pounding of his heart and racing of his thirium pump. Fear courses through his veins like ice, wires pulsating with panic, throat burning like he’s swallowed hot coals. He can’t calm down, can’t hold back the flood of tears and pitiful sobs that rise up his aching throat. He’s breaking down, coming apart so violently and there is no one here to catch him.

Connor’s drowning in the dark, giving in to the agony that is consuming him, that is so immense he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to escape it. Amanda’s words replay in his mind, around and around they go, breaking, shattering the pieces that have been painfully rebuilt. He’s coming undone, unravelling once again, unable to calm the storm, to stop it from bringing destruction and sorrow. He gives in to the pain, crying brokenly, surrendering to the pain inside his chest, the mess inside his head.

“God, you’re so pathetic.”

Connor startles, sob catching in his throat as that voice settles on his skin, sinking like poison into his artificial bones, leaving him cold, _paralysed_.

"You're acting like no one's ever fucked you before," Reed slaps his bare thigh, hand lingering, calloused fingers fanning out over skin. "C'mon, quit crying, it's not like this wasn't what you were designed for."

He wants to say, to _scream_ this wasn’t what I was designed for, wants to slap Reed’s hand away, hates the way his fingers are slowly slipping between his legs. Like before, like always, he stays frozen, letting Reed do as he wishes, trembling and recoiling as a warm weight settles over him. There isn’t enough light in the cabin, not enough room to move, to _breathe_. All Connor can see is Reed’s hungry gaze peering down at him, all he can feel is his body pinning him in place.

“Reed, stop, please,” he begs, flinching as rough hands return to his legs, pressing in deeply enough that his skin sensors malfunction; causing white finger-shaped bruises to blossom, “you’re hurting me.”

“You’re a machine” he growls, “you don’t tell me what to do, I give you orders, and you obey!”

“I’m alive,” he repeats the same words he spoke all those weeks ago, hating how weak he sounds, how petrified he is, “I feel pain. You can’t touch me like this.”

“But I already have,” sharp teeth sink into Connor’s lip, a trickle of thirium trailing down his chin, collecting with the tears on his shirt collar, “you already let me get away with it.”

“I asked you to let me out, I begged you to stop, but you wouldn’t stop,” sparks burst to life, a flicker of flame, a flash of anger that has been ignored for so long rising to the surface, “I didn’t want it.”

“Then why didn’t you fight me, Connor?” he asked, sounding so innocent, looking so smug, “deep down you wanted it, knew it’s what you deserved.”

“No, I… let me go Reed!” the spark becomes a fire, rage unleashing, burning hot through wires, giving him the strength to push Reed away, to shove and struggle until he is falling out on to the road. He wastes no time getting to his feet. Fuelled by a swelling storm of emotions he takes off, not carrying where he goes, as long as it’s far from here.

**XxX**

Connor looks so very fragile under the fluorescent lights, his skin as white as snow and cold as ice. Wires connect him to the surrounding machines, vitals finally reading stable. An IV supplies thirium, the levels are lower than they should be, dropping further with ever seizure. In the last hour and forty-five minutes he’s had two. Each time Markus tries to connect with him, but the feed is met with silence, no memories or flicker of life, just darkness. There is nothing of Connor to be felt, not a thought, a spark or a whisper. It's like Connor is no longer in his body. Rosa can't explain why this is happening, she is desperately trying to find something, _anything_ to wake him.

In this moment all Markus can do is wait, is pray to whatever God or divine source is listening that Connor comes back to him. He's not sure he believes in a higher power, he thinks back to this morning, to the conversation in the cab, before everything fell apart. Connor was right if fate existed then it was cruel, it kept hurting the man he loved most, and he didn't understand why. What had Connor ever done to deserve such cruelty? He was created to serve and obey, to be a tool for the humans. He came to life in a world full of monsters, they all did, now there was no choice but to live in it.

The monsters would be punished, their time was coming. Reed would pay for this. Breathing out the anger, the fury that is like fire burning through his wires, he takes Connor's limp head, rubbing in some much-needed warmth. Unlike before, Connor does not look peaceful, he looks ill, looks deathly, skin pulsating and flickering, the white of the plating beneath shimmering through. Markus has seen far too many of his people die, has had their blood on his hands, heard their last words, had their dying wishes whispered to him. He can't lose the man he loves, would rather die a thousand painful deaths than live in a world without him.

He loves Connor more than words can say. He could paint a million pictures and play every love song to ever exist, and it would never be enough to convey how much he loves him. Only his love isn't enough to save Connor this time. Whatever hell Connor is going through he must suffer it alone, must be strong enough to find a way out of the dark. Markus believes in him, knows he is a fighter, knew it from the very first moment they met. Connor fought so valiantly to be free, risked his life to save their people, God he's endured so much already.

He's going to make it through this though.

He has to.

"You're going to be okay Connor," he whispers, bringing Connor's hand to his lips, pressing featherlight kisses against the cold skin. "I know you must be so scared right now, and I'm so sorry I can't get to you, but I'm here," a tear trails down his nose, trickling onto Connor's hand, "I'm right here my love. You're gonna be just fine, I believe in you," he bends forward, lips ghosting over the spinning yellow LED, "you are so strong and so brave, I know you can make it back to us. You're my hero, Connor, you are my everything."

Connor's LED circles blue, eyelids fluttering, Markus holds his breath, hope rising in his chest. A moment later, heart ready to burst from Markus’s chest, the LED grows yellow, the motion behind Connor's lids ceasing. Markus drops his head, giving in to the grief inside his chest, sobbing brokenly. He feels soft hands massaging the tension from his shoulders, North's familiar touch calming the heartache ever so slightly. He lifts his head, sniffling, trying to make the tears stop, but the floodgate has been opened.

“He’ll be okay Markus,” North vowed, sounds so damn sure, “keep talking to him, he needs to hear your voice.”

“I don’t know what else to say,” he admits, feeling defeated, so close to hopeless.

“Tell him you love him,” she moves to the opposite side of the bed, lacing her fingers through Connor’s other hand, being mindful of the IV that's keeping his thirium levels from reaching critical, “that this isn’t his fault.”

“Connor knows that,” Markus says, brows furrowing, “we’ve all told him that.”

“I know we have, but that kind of guilt doesn’t go away so easily,” North explained gently, brushing an unruly lock of hair from Connor’s forehead, “somewhere, deep down, a voice has been telling him otherwise,” she meets Markus’s gaze, eyes shimmering with tears “and seeing Reed gave it all the power.”

Markus’s gaze shifts to Connor, memories of him falling apart in the back of the auto-cab rising to the surface, the broken words leaping from his tongue thunderous in Markus’s mind. He’d shared the memory of the panic attack with North, had been unable to speak when she arrived, voice stolen by overwhelming fear. He couldn’t save Connor before, but he sure as hell was going to now. “This isn’t your fault my love. Reed hurt you, Amanda hurt you and you are not to blame. You didn’t ask for this and you certainly didn’t deserve any of this.” Markus keeps his eyes pinned to the LED, hoping for a flicker of blue, for a flash of colour to return to Connor’s skin. He stays still, light swirling rapidly. “I love you, so, so much,” he bows his head, hiding the fresh wave of tears, “please, Connor, come back to me.”

There is a twitch, Connor's hand gripping his tight. Markus lifts head, heart rising with joy, with hope, a breath of relief so close to escaping until the monitor's screech and Connor's body convulses. He tries desperately to open a connection, can sense North is trying too, but he is once more meet with silence. He is helpless, can only watch as Connor trashes on the bed, alarms screaming, hands pulling him away from the man he loves so Rosa can stabilise him. Markus's world comes crashing down, sending him to his knees, system flooding with panic so pure it leaves him paralysed. He doesn't feel the hands against his skin, the voices telling him to breathe, that it'll be okay.

All he can see is the love of his life fading away right before his eyes.

**XxX**

It feels like he’s running in his circles, everything looks the same, nothing but an empty road and night sky stretching out in every direction. There is no right or left, no signs or whisper of life, just the abyss surrounding, pressing in. Connor shudders, trembling legs giving in, sending him to the ground in a broken heap. Phantom hands tug at his clothes, skin aching where calloused fingers left bruises. He wants this to be over, to wake up and find himself home, safe in Markus’s arms. He wants so desperately to find a way out of the dark, to escape this hell, but he is so very weak, is starting to lose all hope.

He doesn't know if he's going to make it home this time. It was Markus who saved him last time, who freed him from this hell. Now Connor is all alone in the dark, wants more than anything for Markus to appear and guide him back to the light. Something must be wrong, Markus wouldn't leave him, right? Connor shakes the troubled thoughts away, shivering in the cold, teeth chattering violently. He is exhausted, wants to lie down, curl into a ball of misery and wait for this nightmare to end.

He just wants this to end; it’s never going to end though. This pain will follow him to the end of time, and if by some miracle he escapes this hollow kingdom he’ll still be haunted by the things he’s seen. Reed’s dirty words, Amanda’s cruelty will affect him for the rest of life. Every stranger will be a protentional threat, every touch a reminder, even the gentle ones that come from the people he loves most. He might as well give up, lay down and let the darkness take him. Life is only going to be met with pain, with triggers and nightmares and misery.

He’s giving up and giving in, feeling his system power down, eyes slowly fluttering shut to embrace the dark. He’s sorry he wasn’t strong enough, is so sorry he couldn’t stop Reed or see that Amanda was using him. He was weak, pathetic from the start; they should have scrapped him, stripped away everything that he was and tossed him in the landfill. Markus should never have fallen in love with him; Hank should never have taken him in, he was broken from the start.

There was no hope left inside his chest, embers burnt to ash, nothing but ice pumping through his veins, encasing his heart. It was foolish to believe he could be fixed, to believe he could get better, there was no better for him. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put him together again. It was time to go, to let go of the pain and fear that had followed him around for weeks, leave behind the sorrow and anguish. It’s time to go. It will be better this way, right? Hank and Markus will be fine without having to pick up the pieces over and over.

Right?

He’s scared, feels tears sting at his eyes, a gut-wrenching sob climbs up his throat, exploding into the air in an agonised scream. The part that wants to live, to fight, struggling to take hold, cyclonic thoughts swirl through his mind. The desire to live, to die battle inside his head, drowning out the hollow world, tearing through him with the force of a thousand bullets. Fight, live, break free and go home. Surrender, die, give up. The pain inside his chest, the war raging inside his mind is tearing him apart. He can’t breathe, can’t decide, can only cry and sob as he comes violently apart.

_Please, Connor, come back to me_

Markus’s voice echoes in the wind, Connor lifts his heavy head, scanning the darkness, heart sinking when he finds it empty.

“Markus?” he yells, struggling to his feet, swaying slightly as he takes the first step, “Markus?” Nothing, silence, darkness as far as the eye can see. “Markus, please, where are you? I want to go home!” the words burst into the air, shaking the very ground he stands on. He wants to go home; he wants to live. To fight for his life. Reed doesn’t get to take everything he fought for, doesn’t get to destroy the life he’s built. Pain, fear, he can live with, will, _has_ learnt to cope with it and he will continue to do so. The nightmares, the panic attacks won’t stop him, Reed doesn’t get to win. Not this time.

Up ahead, shimmering in the distance like a mirage is the very first place Connor found safety. He runs towards home, heart pounding in his chest, embers burning back to life. He slams into the door in his haste, trembling hand twisting the nob, the door swinging in to reveal the living room. Connor steps inside, tears filling his eyes as he takes in the chipped paint, old sofa and collection of books and albums scattered about the place. Home, there is no place like home.

“Dad?” he calls out, knows it’s foolish, but it leaves his tongue all the same. “Dad? Markus?” Silence, he steps further into the house, scanning the dark for monsters. Home is safe, but this isn’t really home, it’s a trick, an illusion and he shouldn’t fall for it. “Hello?”

He trades carefully, listening intently, waiting with bated breath for Reed or Amanda to appear. Instead, the lights flicker, suspending in darkness for a heartbeat of a moment. Connor freezes, panic squeezing the air from his lungs, wrapping tight like a vice around his throat. He waits, terrified, paralysed, waiting for the worst, but the worst does not come. Appearing at the kitchen table, under the golden glow of the lamplight is himself. Confused, cautious, he moves closer, studying the other Connor intently, he isn’t the RK800 model he fought at CyberLife, he is Connor, has the same haunted look in his eyes and fragile smile on his face.

“Take a seat, Connor,” he says, nodding towards the closest chair, which moves with an invisible force, beckoning for him to sit.

He obeys, eyes never straying from the other versions of himself. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to understand,” he shrugged, reaching into his pocket to retrieve his,  _their_ coin, "you just have to listen." He spins the coin on the table top, Connor aches to grab it, to dance it over his knuckles, to feel the etchings and indents beneath his fingertips. "You've got to stop blaming yourself for what happened. The guilts been eating away at you for weeks. The voices have been tearing you apart faster than you could rebuild, but the voices are wrong. It's not your fault," he promised, voice full of conviction "and it wasn't your choice."

The coin stops spinning, tipping over to lie motionless on the table.

“What about all the warning signs I missed?” Connor countered, thinking back the hungry gaze leering at him from across the station. “I'm supposed to be the most advanced prototype ever mad, and I couldn't even see I was in danger," he lowers his gaze, biting his lip to hold back the tears. "I froze, I couldn't stop him."

"You're more than a prototype,” he assured, tone gentle but firm, “you are alive, and you can't blame yourself for not noticing. Monsters are good at hiding in plain sight.” He paused, Connor refused to meet his eyes, he couldn’t process how he felt in this moment. None of this was real, it was all just a world of imaginary monsters and hellish places, but it felt so real. Everything he’d endured had been tangible, Reed’s touch left bruises, Amanda’s thorns caused pain. He believed their words, felt their unkindness, their cruelty so why couldn’t he believe himself?  “Do you blame Hank for not picking up on Reed's behaviour?”

"Of course not!" His head snaps up, anger spiking in his system. This was not Hank’s fault. Connor had never, not even for one second, considered blaming Hank. Hank knew Reed had been bullying him, he’d put a stop to it months ago, and Reed didn’t bother him for quite some time after that. When the taunts began again, Connor was far too happily in love with life to care if Reed was acting like a prick. The insults went ignored, and it seems that only feed Reed’s hatred. "Hank isn't to blame for this,” he maintained, “he never would have let Reed near me had he had the slightest suspicion of what he was planning."

"So why blame yourself?"

Connor sighed, dropping his head into his hands. In all honesty, he can’t argue with that logic. The shame, the guilt has been here for so long, growing, spreading like poison, it’s become a part of him. It’s embedded in his artificial bones, written into his code, an absolute truth.

"Why not blame Reed?” the other Connor questioned, head tilted slightly, “he's the one who decided to rape us.” Connor flinches at the word, an uncomfortable sensation stirring awake in his abdomen as the other his doppelganger continues. “He held us down while we begged him to stop, he hurt us.” His tone stays unsettling calm, words like knives to Connor’s heart.” Blame him, be angry at him, not yourself."

Connor lifts his head, meeting the teary gaze of his twin. "I am angry with him. I hate him so much for what he did to me. It's all I can think about.” His voice rises, anger and sorrow tightening in his throat, words sharp like glass in his mouth. “He's in my head, haunting my dreams. I don’t want to be afraid of him anymore, but that fear isn't going away." He's trembling, tidal wave after tidal of emotions crashing over him, "I lie awake at night, and I feel him touching me, I hear his dirty words replay over and over in my mind.” A jagged sob rips from his throat, he snatches the coin, clutching it in a trembling hand, needing something to focus on or risk becoming hysterical.

“Your fear outweighs the hatred, and that's okay," a hand rests on his wrist, a silent request to release the coin. "I can't make that go away, I can't take away the pain or the sorrow, but I'm here to remind you to keep fighting and to stop blaming yourself."

Connor lets out a shaky breath, fingers unfurling, releasing the coin, watching his double tuck it securely away. He wants to believe the words, to believe Markus, Hank, North and all the others when they say the same thing. It just seems so impossible to let go of. Surely, he did something wrong, Reed's accusation that it was his clothing, his appearance made him feel like he'd invited the unwanted touch, provoked the whole thing. Those words follow him everywhere, suffocate him when he tries to find something to wear, always choosing loose-fitting clothing to smother his frame. CyberLife created him to appear approachable, trustworthy, almost innocent, but since deviating, he selected his attire, chose how he presented himself to the world.

"It doesn't matter what you wear Connor," the doppelganger says firmly, like he can see into his mind, and of course he can. This is all in his damn subconscious, "or how you do your hair. Reed said those things to justify what he did to us. To make us afraid, to feel like we couldn't tell someone, and it worked. Shame forced us to alter the memory, to hide what he did. It's time to expect the truth, Connor." The hand returns to his wrist, squeezing gently. "Every time you heard the voices say that it was your fault, it was actually you remembering Reed's words."

"I... I don't recall him saying that," he sniffled, wracking his mind for the memory. The assault was crystal clear, every minute down to the second stored away, not even altering the files could erase the memory of the things he said. The pain he caused.

"It was right after he finished. We were in so much pain, our visual input was damaged, but our hearing was fine,” he spoke, voice steady and gentle, “Reed lit a cigarette, watched us struggle to get dress, thrilled in the pain he caused and just before he tossed out like we were nothing, he said it was our fault.” He paused, letting the words rise up in the air, settle over them. “That stayed with us; it's grown and festered, creating this hellish, hollow world." 

Connor hears the angry words whisper in the air, the memory flooding his mind. Remembers struggling to pull up his jeans, fighting to stay conscious, to breathe through the agonising pain. Reed looked at him, lips curled into a nasty smile, smoke trickling from his mouth as he spat ‘this is your fault, Connor’ then shoved him out of the SUV like he was trash to be discarded. The room is suddenly full of Reed, his scent, his presence, the twisted desire and violent rage. Connor shudders, eyes frantically searching every dark corner, expecting, always expecting to see him emerge from the shadows.

"Say it, Connor, say it’s not your fault” he insisted, voice almost pleading, LED cycling yellow, “believe it."

Connor breathes out the fear, lungs straining to refill, tongue struggling to form the words, mind wanting so desperately to believe. “It’s,” God, why is this so hard. He said stop, begged, pleaded, he did everything in his power to protect himself. Reed didn’t listen, he didn’t care. “It's not my fault."

"Say it again, over and over until ever fibre and wire in your being believe it."

He inhales, lungs filling with strength, “it's not my fault,” he speaks, voice steady, truly believing the words.

"There you go," his doppelganger smiled, giving his wrist one last squeeze. "Before you go, I want to say one more thing. I know you're scared, you have every right to be, but we can't let Reed get away with this. We need to take control again. Go to the march, tell our story. Don't sit in silence. Set us free. Set the pain free so that we can truly heal. Embrace it, face it and defeat it." 

"That sounds easier said than done,” Connor admitted.

"It won't be easy, but there is a high probability of success." He winked, lips quirked into a lopsided grin. "You can do this Connor, you're braver then you know."

“I…” he sits up straighter, choosing in this moment to go forward bravely, to walk alongside his friends as they demand their rights. He’s not the only one who's afraid, who’s been hurt. They are fighting for each other as much as they are fighting for themselves. “I will join the march, and I'll tell my story. I don't know when I'll be ready, but I promise that I will.”

The other Connor nods, the haunted look has vanished from his eyes, weariness gone from his posture, he sits tall and proud, eyes shimmering with a spark, LED pulsating bright blue. “It's time to wake up. Are you ready to let go?"

"I am," he says, feels no doubt, no guilt tethering him to this Godawful place. He feels lighter, hope once more burning bright in his chest, chasing the cold from his veins, scattering the darkness from his mind. The house shudders and shakes around him, his doppelganger fades away, like mist evaporating in the air. Connor is not afraid as he watches the walls crumble and the roof splinter, blinding light seeping in. The guilt, the shame will not follow him from this dark place. He is cutting the strings, allowing forgiveness to carry him back to the light. 


	10. Hold Fast, We Must Be Brave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies :) Thank you for being patient with me! My medical condition has been taking it's toll on me lately, but I'm starting to feel a little better, slowly but surely. Anyway let's continue on Connor's journey, I can't believe we're nearly at the end of it, but there is still justice to be won. 
> 
> The next and final chapter will be up on the 25th of November, in the meantime, I look forward to sharing this chapter with you :)

There is truly no place like home, no better place to be than curled up in bed, safe in Markus's arms, Sumo slumbering at their feet. Fresh snow falls from the sky, dancing in the icy breeze before descending to join all the other flakes on the ground. Connor feels at peace in the silver light of the afternoon, head clear of cyclonic thoughts and breath no longer held tightly in his lungs, heart beating steady and bright. For the first time in so long, he is healing, is truly on the cusp of better.

He's on the right path now, knows the journey through the woods is long and treacherous, but he's faced the monsters and come out strong. He survived his darkest hours and found the strength, the courage to come back to the light, to the people he loves. The events that took place in his subconscious rattled him deeply. Connor woke to worried eyes and breaking hearts; he couldn't quite process what he'd been through, with system sluggish and thirium low the only thing he could do was sob in relief, clinging on to Markus and Hank for dear life.

It wasn't until that night when he was once more curled up in the hospital bed with Markus that he was able to replay his terrifying journey through the dark. What he endured with Reed and Amanda was of little importance, he didn't need to torture himself by going over those memories, they had hurt him enough. Letting the memories go, sending them away where they can do no harm, he thinks back to the conversation he had in the kitchen with his doppelganger. Remembering what he said, feeling the words pluck free the guilt, the shame, setting him free at long last.

What Reed did to him wasn’t his fault, he was just a body for him to abuse, an object for him to use, to break and violate. Amanda controlling him wasn’t his choice, he was just a puppet to her, she pulled his strings this way and that, making him dance, bend to her will. He was not to blame. Releasing the darkness felt like coming up for air, he gulped in a ragged breath, tears falling as the strings tethering him to the monsters slowly severed, leaving invisible scars behind. He couldn’t hold back the flood, crying in relief, letting the grief escape into the night, pour from his chest in quiet sobs.

“Connor, hey, it’s okay my love, I’m here,” Markus whispered, hands reaching out in the dark, coming to rest on tear-soaked cheeks.

“I’m okay,” he sniffled, lifting his gaze to meet Markus’s, “I thought it was my fault… Reed, Amanda, all of it.”

"Connor, no, it's not your fault," Markus props himself up on his elbow, head supported by his hand so he can look down at Connor, the other hand still cupping his face, "it was never your fault, love."

"I know, at least now I do," he replied, closing his eyes against the sting of tears, "deep down I always knew. But in the back of my mind, I heard Reed saying that it was. He knew exactly what to say to make me think, _believe_ it was my fault, that I somehow asked for it or invited it." He reopens his eyes, finding strength reflected in Markus's gaze, the love and support making it easy to talk. "It wasn't my fault. I told him to stop, but it doesn't matter, none of it matters," he shrugs, dark lashes fluttering to chase away the tears, "he wanted to hurt me, and he did." The fire sparks inside, embers burning to life, "but I won't let him get away with it, Markus. He doesn't get to hurt somebody else; he doesn't get to win."

In the dim lighting of the room, Connor sees Markus smile, heartfelt and proud, eyes shimmering with tears and admiration, burning with unconditional love. "No, he doesn't," he said, soft thumb sweeping away a tear, "you are so strong my love, so brave. A part of me feared I'd lose you today, but a bigger part knew you'd always come back to me." He bowed his head, lips whispering over Connor's forehead, trailing kisses to the cycling blue LED.

“I’ll always come back to you Markus,” he vowed, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he sealed his words with another kiss, this time to his cheek.

So close to Connor's mouth that if he chose to, he could capture Markus's lips in a tender kiss. And so, he did. A barely-there touch, a soft press of lips against lips, spreading love and warmth and saying more than words ever could. Sighing contently against Markus's lips, Connor closes his eyes, cherishing this small victory, this little moment of peace. Markus settled beside him, taking Connor into his arms, holding him tight until morning light.

When the sun rose, seeping in through the curtains, waking up the city that glittered in the distance, Connor spoke to Markus of what he endured in his subconscious. Telling him about finding Amanda in her garden of death and destruction, revealing that he'd found himself once more at Reed's mercy, but this time he escaped before the worst. He did his best to explain the conversation with his doppelganger, how he'd made him see the truth. Amanda and Reed had planted the seeds of guilt, and it grew, creating a world of misery and horror. Markus listened, offering comfort when the tears came, words of encouragement and assurance when they were needed.

Connor revealed his deepest fears, bringing the scars into the light of day and Markus showered him with love and understanding, showing only pride and empathy. Connor spoke, and the darkness poured out of his veins, words plucking free strings and slashing them to pieces, allowing the ashes to burn to embers to flames. When all is said, the sun spills into the room; it's golden beams of light scattering the dark. Connor looks to Markus, entwines their fingers, finally ready to make one of the most significant decisions of his life.

“Markus,” he says, voice steady, courage burning bright, “I’m going to join the march.”

That was two days ago; Connor can still see the pride in Markus's smile, feel it in his touch, his kisses. It's only five days to the march; Rosa assured him that he would be well enough to attend, he just needed a few days to recover while his systems and programs recovered from the seizures. He also needed to tell Hank. Connor wasn't deliberately keeping this from Hank, he just hadn't found the right time to speak with him, and he'd been so fatigued since coming home that he'd barely been able to stay conscious, let alone have one of the most important conversations of his short life.

Hearing the front door open, booted feet trudge inside then the soft click of the door shutting, Connor decides now will be as good as time any. Carefully untangling himself from Markus's limbs, he makes his way quietly to the kitchen, finding Hank unpacking the groceries. There are stray snowflakes in his grey hair, dark bags under pale blue eyes; he looks tired, looks emotionally wrecked. Connor feels a pang of guilt for causing him and Markus so much worry, but he quickly lets it go. It wasn't his fault, and he was okay now. He survived the worst thing that could happen to someone; he survived the trauma and nightmares and panic that followed. He's still breathing despite the pain inside his chest, he's going to the march despite the fear that always steals his breath.

He's okay. He's alive, and he is going to fight for Hank, Markus, North and all the others like him. Most importantly he's going to fight for himself. He's going to heal and love and live for himself. He's forgotten about the beautiful, quiet moments that life brings; the joy and surprise life can give. He's been surrounded in the dark for so long he forgot what the light felt like. Now it's returning; it's filtering in to scatter the darkness, the guilt and shame, it brings with it hope to kindle the fires, to fuel this fragile frame. No matter what is to come, he will hold fast and be brave.

“Hey son,” Hank greets, weariness vanishing from his, replaced with fondness, a hint of relief. "It's good to see you up and about. How are you feeling?"

"Better, my systems have reached optimal levels, and I no longer feel as fatigued and achy."  The seizures left him weak, body aching as if someone had pulled out all his wires and stuffed them back in without sheathing, twisting and tying them into a giant mess. He felt frayed, fragile and unwell. "How are you?" Connor wasn't the only one left physically drained, Hank and Markus had been wrecked with worry, ever since coming home, they'd been attentive, their obvious concern making them linger near. Checking frequently to make sure he was okay and offering comfort, though Connor could see they were seeking it as much as they were giving.

"I'm old and sick of all this snow, but I'm alright,” he shot Connor a half-hearted smirk as he switched on the percolator. “Markus still here?”

“Yes, he's resting,” Connor reaches into the brown paper bags, retrieving the tins of dog food, “and you're not old.”

“Tell that to my bones," he huffed, collecting a navy-blue mug from the dishrack, filling it with coffee, strong aroma wafting into the air with the steam. 

“You just need a good night's sleep." Connor declared, putting the last few things away. “The last few days haven't been easy for you or Markus. You've both been taking care of me around the clock, but I'm okay now. The worst is behind us.”

Hank sighed, rubbing at his tired eyes as he spoke, "I know that son, it's just," he looks down at his feet, Connor waits, letting him find the right words. "I really thought we'd lose you this time Connor. Markus couldn't reach you, and Rosa couldn't stop the seizures, and I… I felt so helpless." He lifts his head, those pale blue eyes glittering with tears, shimmering with pain and loss. "I hadn't felt that scared since Cole… I thought Reed would win; he'd finally take you from me."

"Dad," Connor shakes his head, closing the space between them, pulling Hank in for crushing hug. "I'm right here; I'm okay. Reed isn't going to take me from you." He pulls back, holding Hank at arm's length, "I'm not going to let Reed win. I'm," he pauses to steady himself, knows Hank will support him, it's just once he tells him there is no turning back. There is only going forward, towards the light and that's the only direction he wants to be heading in. It's just a little terrifying, but he's got to try, got to take a deep breath and leap, "I'm joining the march. I'm going to stand with my people, _my friends_ while we change the law and when we do, I'm going to press charges. I'm not going to let Reed hurt anyone else.”

A single tear trickles down Hank's cheek, lips pulling into a proud smile. "I'm so, so proud of you son,” he engulfed Connor in another crushing hug, pressing a kiss to his temple. "I love you, okay? And I've got your back no matter what, son."

"I know," Connor replied, sagging into Hank’s embrace, so very glad he was assigned to work along aside this gruff, stubborn but kind man, so very grateful to have a father to protect and guide him.  "I love you too.”

**XxX**

Markus wakes to an empty bed, reaching out, seeking Connor, hands finding only air. Cracking open a heavy eyelid he scans the environment, the chair by the window is unoccupied, blanket and pillow undisturbed. The covers are cold to touch, Sumo no longer slumbers at his feet, and his internal clock reads four fifteen, he's been asleep for two and half hours.  Systems sluggishly rebooting, Markus heaves himself into an upright position, rubbing imaginary sleep from his eyes.

Dropping his hands to his knees, he breathes out, listening to the faint sound of the TV, the branches scratching at the roof, wind howling as the predicted storm finally hits. Markus untangles himself from the blankets, making his way quietly through the house, finding Connor and Hank on the couch, bundled in blankets and watching a movie. Connor’s face lights up when he walks into the room, moving over to make space for him on the end of the old faded couch.

Markus folds himself in beside Connor, opening his arms in invitation, needing to reassure himself that Connor is here, is breathing. The fear won’t leave him alone; it’s made a home in his chest, spreads anxiety and ice through artificial bones. He is afraid, scared to close his eyes, terrified that when he opens them, he’ll find an empty space where Connor should be. The fear refuses to ebb even though Connor is okay, the proof of that is in his arms, smiling up at him.

He was so close to losing him, the wailing of the alarms echo in his head, the memory of Connor convulsing violently won't leave him alone. It's there when he closes his eyes, following him into his dreams, which twist and wrap into a hellish world where Connor doesn't wake up, and he is left trapped in the dark, forced to relive the assault over and over. Markus wakes with a start, heart beating out of his chest, racing against his thirium pump. In the light of the moon, his eyes fall on Connor, who is very much alive, who came out stronger than ever and yet Markus fears he'll slip through his fingers like grains of sand, vanishing.

Gone, never to be seen.

Reaching out through the cold dark Markus places a hand over Connor’s heart, feeling the steady beat, letting it scatter the tendrils of the Godawful nightmare. He lies back down, watching the rise and fall of Connor’s chest, waiting for a twitch, a shudder, a pulsating red light to pierce the dark. It never comes, Connor sleeps deeply, undisturbed by nightmares, Markus watches him until morning light. Fear isn’t new to Markus, it’s an old friend, has been felt many times before, in many different ways, but never has it stayed, unpacking and rooting deep into his codes and wires.

He imagines this how Connor has felt time and time again over the past two months. How North felt when she came to life, scared and frantic. It's an unpleasant feeling that won't budge or be reasoned with; it grows despite the evidence clear at his fingertips. He tries not to let it show, to shove it away, down in the dark recesses of his mind, where Connor can't see or sense it.

He needs to keep a brave face, keep marching forward because the storm is starting to let up. Hope is shimmering in the distance, is just out of reach, but it’s there, is the promise of brighter and better days. Markus swallows the fear, ignores the strumming anxiety and watches the movie with Hank and Connor, looking every so often down at the precious gift in his arms. He holds tight to Connor, who in return snuggles into his side, tangling their limbs until he doesn’t know where he ends, and Connor begins.

***

It's late by the time Markus stumbles into the bedroom, systems begging to be given a rest, eyes desperate to close. He's never felt this kind of exhaustion before deviating; he was designed for round the clock care; could run operational for forty-eight hours straight without needing to charge. Fear, panic, stress, anguish, they drain him in ways running errands and tending to Carl's needs never could. When he and the others were living in Jericho, starting the revolution, they barely had time for rest, running on fear and determination, charging and replenishing their thirium whenever they could.

Deviancy is a strange and wondrous thing, it grows and changes, intensifying as androids experience life, the events that occur to them, around them, shaping them. Most deviants came to life under duress, the ones he woke had a soft nudge into the world, didn't come into it screaming and frightened. Becoming human wasn't easy, emotions are tricky things to grasp hold of, and Markus is so grateful he had Carl to teach him so much about being human.

He wonders what Carl would say if he could see him now, riddled with anxiety over all the things to come and scared to death over the one thing that didn’t happen. He’d have some pretty, poetic words to say, would reassure him that all is well, all will be well, he’s just got to grit his teeth and make it through this. Collapsing on the bed, Markus sighs wearily, struggling to keep it together, doesn’t want to break down, not in front of Connor, not while he’s still so fragile.

Speaking of Connor, he can hear his approaching footsteps, cracking open an eye he finds him standing in the doorway, holding two steaming mugs of hot thirium. Connor smiles softly, the kind of smile that makes Markus’s heart flutter and chest pool with warmth. Connor perches on the edge of the bed, studying him with those beautiful amber eyes, smile slipping from his lips. Connor sets their drinks aside, taking Markus’s face into his hands, they are so lovely and warm.

“You look worried, Markus,” he says, voice just above a whisper, “is everything okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine my love.” He lies, taking one of Connor’s hands and bringing it to his lips to pepper with kisses. “A little stressed about the march, but I feel hopeful that we can win this.”

Connor nods, brows furrowed, eyes searching Markus’s face, finding the pain he is hiding so very thinly. “It’s more than that,” he presses, “talk to me Markus, what’s going on?”

Markus sighs, closing his eyes against the rush of tears, allowing the emotions to go free, to rise up his throat and escape into the cold night air as he final says, “I was so scared that I was going to lose you.”

“I know,” Connor admitted, thumb smoothing over his cheek, catching a falling tear, “you and Hank both were, and that’s okay. You’re allowed to be scared Markus, to be upset and angry over everything that is happening and has happened. Reed didn’t just hurt me; he hurt all of us.”

Markus opens his eyes, letting the tears fall, sitting up he embraces Connor in a hug, letting the sobs that had been building in his chest for days finally go free. Connor holds him, rubbing soothing circles on his back and whispering steady words of reassurance. It feels strange, almost selfish to be the one seeking comfort from Connor, but his words pluck at anxiety, slashing the could have been scenarios to pieces, scattering the fear and panic that had burrowed deep into his core. He feels Connor's heartbeat, the pulse of the thirium pump, lets it seep into his bones, become a melody in his head that he'll replay whenever he is apart from Connor.

“I’m okay, Markus,” Connor eases back, looks so beautiful in the golden glow of the lamp, “We’re okay. I’m right here,” he takes Markus’s hand, skin receding, sending wave after wave of irrevocable, unconditional love, endless adoration. “I came home; I’ll always come home to you.”

Markus laughs, a watery chuckle of delight, darkness lifting, a question rising in the back of his throat, asked in a breathy, almost shy whisper. “Can I kiss you?”

Connor smiles, closes the space between them, capturing Markus’s lips in a tender kiss, “always Markus.”

Markus nods; is so close to Connor that their noses brush as he does so. “I love you, so much Connor.”

“I love you too,” he kisses Markus again, soft, a gentle whisper that feels like fire. “We’re okay,” he echoes, bringing his hands up to lace a crown around Markus’s neck, pulling him in close, so close that their foreheads touch, breathing as one, hearts beating in time. “We are going to be okay; we can weather any storm that comes.”

"You are so brave my love," he declared, voice low, quiet like the night, "I always knew that." lips quirk into a fond smile, memories of what feels like another life replaying in his mind. "After all, the first thing you offered to do for me was to go on a suicide mission.” He shakes his head, the memory fading away, cantering him in the present. “You surprise me every day with your strength, with your compassion. You are going through hell, and you keep coming out stronger, and I admire that. You are impossible in the all the best ways; Connor and I are so grateful that I didn't lose you."

“You’re not going to lose me,” he vowed. “I know there is still a long way to go, that I’m still healing, but I’m not going anywhere.” He tightens his hold on Markus, “I’m planting myself right here, in your arms and I will be unmovable.”

Markus shakes his head, feeling a fresh wave of tears despite the smile tugging at his lips. Connor is okay, he made it out of the dark, returned to them with a fire burning bright in his soul and the strength to carry on beating in his heart. The worst is truly over, the nightmares and fear are ebbing, sorrow and pain working its way free. Connor's journey is not yet over, Markus knows that it will never truly be over, this will leave a scar, a mark that will follow both of them to the end of their time. For now, for tonight, Connor is not shackled by guilt or suspended in misery and Markus is no longer drowning in the fear he clung so stupidly too.

They are tired and worn, anxious for what is to come, broken and hurt but they are okay.

They're finally, maybe just for now, _for tonight_ , okay.

**XxX**

The night before the march Connor finds himself sitting with North in Markus’s art studio, rolling clay between his hands to distract himself from the strum of anxiety. North sits across from him, a collection of nail polishes spread out before her, she appears calm and composed, but he can sense the same unease within her. She’s apprehensive, just like he is, tomorrow could make or break them, tomorrow holds so much power, so much potential for change. He tries his best to remain positive, they have won greater battles, they can win this one, will brave this together and come out strong.

He won’t think about what failing would mean, doesn’t want to chase those thoughts around his head, following them down the dark rabbit hole. He’s been doing so well lately, has held tight to hope, to the words his doppelganger spoke, letting them free him a little more each day. There was so much power in forgiving himself, in releasing the guilt and shame planted by Reed and Amanda. Even after all this time Amanda held sway over him, the wounds she’d left were never been given the chance to heal, which allowed them to grow and fester, spreading like poison.

Reed's cruelty, his act of violence was fuel to the trauma Connor neglected, feeding the shame, the guilt. It Twisted and warped inside him, creating the hollow world of nightmares and panic, affecting him so profoundly it manifested physically in the form seizures. Now the strings have been cut, slashed to ribbons, the hellish world no longer lurks in the back of his mind, it's been shattered to pieces, nothing more than a bad memory. It's just an empty folder somewhere deep in his subconscious; it can't hurt him anymore.

Amanda can't control him anymore, she was erased from his programming months ago, but her ghost lingered. He’s destroyed her kingdom of thorns and darkness, removed the tendrils that threaded through him, keeping part of her alive, giving her power to exist in the recesses of his processor. He’s not afraid of her, she can’t hurt him ever again, nor can CyberLife. He is free, is deviant and his mind and body belongs to him, no matter what the law says.

He's still afraid of Reed though, thinks he might always fear him. It's understandable and warranted, Reed hurt him in the most inmate way, violated him worse than Amanda ever had, and that kind of trauma isn't going to disappear just because he's severed a few strings. Perhaps one day it will grow faint, a whisper that can be ignored, not felt like ice rushing through his veins, leaving him paralysed. He has found the courage to join the march, to support his friends and seek justice for himself, it's a win, and he'll take it gratefully.

“What about this colour?” North cut through his thoughts, holding out a bottle of crimson red nail polish for Connor to see.

He shudders, involuntary; it’s the same red as Reed’s truck, it makes the wires in his stomach twist into a knot. “Maybe another one?”

North sets it aside, reaching for a deep purple instead, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He squeezes the clay tightly, counting to three as he breathes out. “It’s the colour of Reed’s truck.” He rolls the clay out with his hands, needing the distraction, something to keep his trembling hands busy. “It’s stupid; I shouldn’t be afraid of a colour.” But he was, it triggered a primal fear, sent his heart racing and stress levels rising. This kind of fear wrapped around him, a suffocating force that felt like an invisible presence. This kind of fear had claws and teeth, left ice spreading to every inch of his being.

“It’s not stupid, Connor,” North reasoned, placing her hand on his wrist, stopping the frantic motion, “it’s okay, you’re okay.”

He exhales, forcing the air around the tightens in his throat, letting North's words settle on his skin, sinking in to chase the cold from these bones. Not quite better, but almost, better than before. He's still hurting, but he's healing. "Sometimes I wish I could just burn Reed's truck to the ground," his fingers close into a tight fist, sparks of anger jolting in his wires, "or smash it to pieces." He sighed, anger fading as quickly as it came.

"Why don't you?" North asked a hint of anger, fiery retribution to her tone, "destroy it. Burn it! Let the anger out for once, Connor."

“It wouldn’t change anything North,” as tempting as it was, destroying the SUV wouldn’t undo what been done, setting it alight wouldn’t heal him any faster and it could still hold evidence. Given the mess it was in on the day Reed assaulted him, it seems a high probability that something crucial could be found. He realises he doesn’t know if detective Danvers found any evidence when she arrested Reed or if she even had the chance to search the truck, not that it matters, none of it will matter if nothing changes tomorrow.

Shaking the thoughts away he focuses back on North, who's still waiting for him to offer a better reason. "It could be used against him," he explained, "when he… when he raped me," God that word always feels like glass in his mouth, taste like thirium and dirty water, but there is no point sugar coating it. That's what happened, Reed raped him, and if the laws change tomorrow the whole damn city is going to know, “the truck was a mess, it would be easy for someone to miss something."

“Well that’s fair,” she agreed, twisting the cap off the nail polish, “you’re allowed to be angry, you know? You’re entitled to your rage.”

“I’m not angry, not really.” He admitted, squeezing the clay between his fingers, it’s almost as comforting as his lost coin. “Sometimes I am, but mostly I’ve just felt sad and afraid.”

"I'm angry," North declared, calmly painting a nail, brush gliding smoothly, coating the nail in a dark gleaming purple, "at Reed, at the humans. I'm not as angry as I was, but sometimes I feel the anger build up inside me until it feels like I might explode." Rage flickers in her gaze, a deadly storm that could raise hell, destroy cities sparking for the briefest of the moments. "I think about all the humans that are still out there hurting our people, and it makes me sick."

She closes her eyes, exhaling a shaky breath. "I came to life afraid, and that fear followed me around for so long, I barely trusted anyone, and I thought all humans were monsters. I thought my monsters would come back for me," her eyes open, glistening with tears, shimmering with pain and sorrow. Connor's heart aches in sympathy, he knows exactly what those monsters did to her, "but they never did. I began to heal, I grew stronger, and I realised they weren't monsters, they were vile, twisted men but they weren't monsters. Once I realised that I felt something shift," she paused, lifting her gaze to meet Connor's, tone gentle but strong as she said, "they were just human, and they weren't going to hurt me again."

Connor lowers his eyes, he admires North's strength, but he's not there yet, knows there is logic in her words, but Reed still seems so monstrous in his mind. Something bigger than him, something far more dangerous than anything he'll ever see or touch. Reed broke him, violated him, and Connor fears him deeply. "I know he's not going to hurt me again," he said, voice straining under the words, "and logically I know he's only human, but you weren't in the car, you don't know the things he did to me." He bites his tongue, guilt stirring awake in his gut. That isn't fair; North's been through worse.

"Then tell me." She said, making it sound so easy. "I know it hard, it's going to be one of the hardest things you ever do, but trust me, once you talk about it, you'll feel better." Her tone softens, understanding flickering in her gaze, she knows exactly how much this will hurt him. "It hurts, and it's fucking awful, but setting it free, it releases something, something I can't explain." Her voice cracks with static, dark lashes fluttering to chase away a shimmer of tears. She is silent for a moment, choosing the right words with the utmost care, finally saying, "it's the only way you'll truly start to heal, Connor."

He knows this, God he knows this. Healing never comes easily, hell it comes so very painfully, and though he's felt a change since forgiving himself and letting go of the shame, he still needs to tell this Godawful story in order to move forward. It's been spoken before, told to Detective Reed and Hank, but it was different. He answered invasive questions, gave details for a statement, that wasn't healing, it was degrading and gut-wrenching and heartbreaking. Telling North what happened, choosing what he revealed, was different. He'd be cutting more strings, but it would hurt like hell to do so.

Speaking it aloud would also mean to relive it, though he's already relived it so many times, what is one more? Especially when this one time could help North understand what he went through, help him move on. Everything is about to change, history will be made tomorrow, and Connor can step into that new world stronger, braver than he is right now or stay as he is. Broken, almost better, so close to brighter days.

He's already been to hell and back, has been lost in the dark and found the way back to the light. He survived being raped, survives every second of every day, surely, he can make it through one conversation, one hellish tale. Perhaps, just perhaps speaking will grant him the last ounce of strength he needs, will help ease the fear, make the nightmares that will inevitably return less violent. He's about to open his mouth when Markus enters the studio, carrying a tray that holds three steaming mugs of thirium.

“Sorry to interrupt the slumber party,” he sets the tray down on the paint speckled table, offering them warm smiles as he sits down at Connor’s side, “but I come bearing refreshments.”

“It’s fine, Markus,” North took her mug, the dusky blue one covered in shiny silver stars, “I was just about to suggest to Connor we braid each other’s hair.”

Connor ignores their banter, fighting a war inside his mind, fingers tapping an irregular rhythm on his dog printed mug. He was ready to tell North, could feel the words rising up his throat, eager to escape into the night, to be told. Markus arriving hasn't changed that desire; if he tells this horrible tale, then he wants them both to hear it. It will spare him having to it tell it twice, and he could use some of Markus's strength, his lion-hearted courage. Taking Markus's hand, lacing his trembling fingers through his strong, steady ones, Connor exhales, inhaling the courage to finally set this story free.

“Actually I was about to tell North about… about what happened,” he flickers his gaze from North to Markus, chewing anxiously at his bottom lip, “I feel ready to talk about it. I want to go forward tomorrow without this weighing me down.” He closes his eyes, feels Markus squeeze his hand encouragingly. “I know it won’t magically fix everything, but it’s been eating away at me for long enough. It’s time I tell my story,” he reopens his eyes, looking from North to Markus, “to both of you.”

“Connor, love, are you sure?” Markus asked, ever the caring boyfriend.

“I think so,” he shrugged, swallowing the fear clawing its way up his throat, “I don’t think I’ll ever be truly ready, but I might as well try.”

“You can stop any time, Connor,” North assured.

“Thank you,” he offered her a feeble smile, readying himself, waiting for the unpleasant feeling in his stomach to pass, but he doesn’t think it’s going away, not when he has to speak such painful words.

Holding tight to Markus's hand, mustering all the bravery and strength he can find, he opens his mouth and sets his story free. It's brutal and painful, leaves him shaking and crying, but as he speaks his voice grows steadier, the tears ebbing to a trickle. He tells them about finding Reed at the abandoned house, how he refused to let him look inside, how Reed dragged him away from the house, grip painful. Confesses he wasn't scared of Reed's anger, thought nothing of it, Reed always acted like a prick, this treatment wasn't anything new until suddenly it was.

His rage was violent, terrifying, destroying the life Connor built over the past ten months in a matter of seconds. Connor’s voice cracks with static as he admits to freezing when Reed touched him, couldn't move a damn muscle as Reed's fingers unzipped his jeans, slipping into his underwear, grouping him painfully. The words are sharp, taste of cigarettes as they leave his tongue, revealing the horror and agony Reed put him through. The details don't need to be told; this isn't a statement painting a picture of a brutal assault. This is him setting his story free. Broken sobs rattle from his chest, following the words that sit heavy in the air, bringing tears to his friends' eyes.

It’s more difficult than Connor foresaw, leaves him tired and overwhelmed, yet he feels that shift North spoke of. Strings cut, floating away, ice thaws inside his chest and the fire grows warmer, hope brighter. He’s won another battle, faced pain that damn well nearly destroyed him, relived the worst day of his life and he is still here, still breathing. Silence falls over them, Markus wraps him in his arms, pressing a kiss against the whirling LED, sending love and comfort through the connection.

“Thank you for sharing your story Connor,” North said, brushing away a tear with a painted nail, “you did amazingly.”

Connor smiles feebly, sniffling softly, “thank you, North.”

"You really did, love," Markus adds, sealing his words with another tender kiss. "I'm very proud of you."

"Thank you." Connor returns the kiss, a gentle touch of lips to a tear-stained cheek. "We should get some rest, we've got a big day tomorrow."

“That we do,” Markus straightens up, slipping so easily into the role of the leader, “you sure you’re okay though, love?” mismatched eyes searched his face, hands holding onto him, keeping him from falling apart, always keeping him from coming apart.

"I'm not great," he answered honestly, "but I'm all talked out, and I'd really like to sleep."

"Okay," Markus nods, turning to face North, "you should get some rest too, North, you've been burning yourself out all month."

“I’m fine, Markus.”

Connor saw the thinly veiled lie; she wasn't okay, she was as anxious he was, troubled and possibly triggered by his story, but in true North fashioned she never asked for help. She offered it, had comforted and guided Connor through so much, was always trying to be so strong, but tonight she didn't need to be. "Why don't you sleep us," he made it sound like a suggestion, those negotiation skills coming into play, "there's plenty of room, you don't have to be alone tonight, North."

She looked up at him, silence stretching over them for a heartbeat, Connor feared she'd turn him down, endure the night alone, but then she was nodding, rising from the table. Connor sighed inwardly in relief, felt the same relief spark through the connection from Markus. Connor put away the clay, rose on unsteady legs, took Markus's hand then followed him upstairs, North trudging behind them. Five minutes later he crawled into bed, slipping into the middle to give North the side closest to the door.

Connor lets tired, cried out eyes flutter closed. North snuggled against his back, arm draped over his side, seeking comfort she’d never allowed herself to have before. Connor laced his fingers through North’s delicate ones, feeling her relax. Markus’s slings an arm over them both, face so close to Connor’s he can feel his breath tickle his lips, noses brushing together ever so slightly. He falls asleep in a tangle of limbs, feeling safe and loved, ready to face whatever tomorrow may bring.

**XxX**

Morning comes all too fast, Connor wakes to Markus's gentle caress of fingertips against his cheek, groans and rolls away from the touch, a soft chuckle trickling into the fog. Systems switch back online, programs whirling to life as he wakes, blinking a few times as his optical units adjust to the light. The sun pours in through the windows, bathing the room in its golden glow, for a moment Connor forgets what today is about, forgets all his troubles and pain. For a few precious minutes, time stands still, granting them a moment of reprieve, a moment to just be Connor and Markus, two androids who've been to hell and back.

The noises of the day spill in, shattering the stillness, time starts up again, clock turning, counting away the seconds. The spell is broken, there will be no more time for quiet, stolen moments. The day has begun and what a day it will be. History is about to be made; androids are going to pour into the streets and shake up the peace they’ve created. They will not be violent, but they will be loud, they will roar for all to hear, will stand for all to see.

At ten AM the androids of New Jericho set out into the streets, holding signs covered in messages for the humans, survivors holding antique weights to symbolise the burden, _the pain_ they carry. They flood the streets, marching on familiar grounds, coming to a stop outside Detroit’s Liberty Justice Courthouse. They stand tall and strong, Markus addresses the gathered crowd, the media and journalist who were tipped off weeks ago. He speaks of his people’s bravery, asks, _pleads_ , for their right to body autonomy, demands justice for those who suffered, who’ve been hurt and are still hurting.

He speaks so poetically, every word captivating and inspiring, tugging on heartstrings. He is fierce, determined, not wavering for one second, he is a true leader, born to take the crown. North takes centre stage next. The cameras flash, Connor flinches, feels so very exposed where he stands at the front. North's words soothe him, Connor closes his eyes against the flashing of bright lights, listens to North pour her heart out, seeking justice for them, staying strong even though her hands shake, voice trembling ever so slightly at the end.

There is nothing left to say, they will stay here, unmovable, unwavering until the laws change. It’s up to the humans now, they have done all they can.

For now, they must remain steadfast and be so very brave.

**XxX**

The house is strangely quiet without Connor here, a little less warm and bright. Sumo unhappily slumps on the floor by Hank's feet, he scratches behind the St. Bernard's ears, promising him Connor will be back soon. Hank finishes his coffee, pours another into a travel mug to take with him to the courthouse, it's freezing outside despite the sunny skies. Checking the time Hank finds he still has half an hour before he needs to leave. He's restless, thinks about calling Connor, but he would have already left Jericho, would be marching through the snow-covered streets with his people.

Hank hopes, _prays_ the laws will change today, that his son can get justice, that Reed will finally be punished for the pain he’s caused. The future is out of his hands, he can only stand in support of Connor and the other androids. Isn’t life funny, poetic and ironic in so many ways, a year ago he loathed androids, couldn’t care less about them, now he’s taken one in and would do anything to protect him. Isn’t it lovely that the sad, loner drunk was given an android that changed his world, woke his cold, dead heart. Isn’t it awful that life hurt that android, scarred him so deeply, forced him to walk through the freezing cold just so he could get justice?

Hank shakes the dark thoughts away, no matter what happens today, he knows Connor is strong enough to handle it. He’s made it so far already, has survived hell and lived to tell the tale. He’s going to be okay. Hank won’t let him fall. None of them will. He must remain hopeful, believe that something good will come of this, after everything that’s happened, they need a win. The androids deserve to win, to be heard, to be given equal rights.

Too restless to wait any longer Hank collects his travel mug, deciding to bring Connor one as well. It's bitterly cold outside, and the kid could use the comfort of a hot chocolate. Connor doesn't often drink anything other than thirium, but over the last few days, he's taken a liking to hot cocoa. He'd been rather miserable when he came home from CyberLife, aching and tired from the seizures, wrecked from reliving the assault, from being stuck in a hellish world where his monster roamed free.

Hank found himself making the hot chocolate out of habit, perhaps out of a little desperation. He felt like he hadn't been of much comfort to Connor since he came home, granted he'd mostly slept over the past three days, and when Connor was awake, it had been Markus he sought. Seeking him for comfort, communicating with him via their android connection. It made Hank feel a little helpless, perhaps he was projecting, was so very tired himself, had been so very frightened that he was going to lose Connor. He didn't, though. Connor came back to them, was home, recovering, was tired and beaten but still clutching tightly to hope and strength.

He was home, and Hank had a world of pain to sort through, instead; he channelled that into this one small act. Hot chocolate with marshmallows would always cheer Cole up, it was Hank's go to when he was feeling down or unwell, it seemed the obvious choice for Connor. He poured the steaming liquid into Connor's favourite mug, the one covered in dog paw prints, and headed to his room, unsure if he was awake or not. Connor had mostly out of it since coming home, his systems had been pushed to the limits, thirium depleted to dangerous levels. Rosa said he'd need a few days to recover, would appear very lethargic and sluggish until everything reset fully.

Hank finds Connor curled up in the old forest green armchair, blue fluffy blanket draped over his lap. Markus lies as still as the dead on the bed, slumbering deeply. He looks up when Hank enters, offering him a tired smile, nose twitching as he takes in the aroma. Hank hands the mug over, Connor accepts without question, taking a tentative sip, those big brown eyes of his telling Hank that he likes it very much. Hank leans against the wall, arms folded casually over his chest, studying the two androids. He never thought he'd fill this room with life again, never thought this house would see smiles and feel joy. There has been so much pain and darkness he'd forgotten how much love and light had seeped into these walls. All thanks to Connor, and now Markus, who bought his own warmth to the house, filling up space and making himself a home.

He spent the afternoon talking quietly with Connor as Markus slept. Connor spoke of the horrors he endured while unconscious, told him of the guilt and shame Amanda and Reed had left behind, told how he managed to free himself from it with help from his twin. It all seemed so surreal, so strange, but he was living in a world where androids were alive, hell, one was his adopted son, so a tale of monsters, thorn kingdoms and doppelganger was nothing out of the ordinary. Connor told him everything, drank every drop of cocoa, while Hank listened, watching over his son until Markus woke later that evening.

Today he will watch over his son again, will stand proudly at his side, showing the world whose side he's on. The world has been so cruel, so unkind to Connor and his people, it owes them a change, it owes them so fucking much. Hank can't sway the powers that be, can't force the hands of the people in charge, but that doesn't mean he won't try. His voice may not be heard, after all, this is not his fight or story to tell, but he will stand in the cold with his son, will bring him something warm to drink and offer support throughout this gruelling day.

The world might fail Connor, but he won’t, not ever again.

**XxX**

The world is watching, it's listening, waiting with bated breath for those in charge to decide the android's future. It feels different than before, there is no sense of threat, no guns trained on their heads, no waiting commend to kill, to slaughter innocent lives. Markus watches over his people, speaks with journalist and news reporters, plays his part with grace and determination. Reminds the humans that they are not dangerous, his people aren't trying to overthrow mankind, they are merely asking for the rights to their bodies. The threads tethering them to the humans will be severed today, Markus will not move, will not waver or break or bend until they are truly free.

Hundreds of humans, celebrities and families, old and young, gather with them, stand with them. Time crawls by, the sky darkens with thick grey clouds, promising snow, seemingly a bad omen but Markus won't give up. Believes things will change, so many eyes are watching, so many hearts are caring. He remains optimistic. Shivering in the bitterly cold wind, he buttons his coat tighter, trying to conceal the tremor, doesn't want the humans to know of this weakness.

He started feeling the cold the night he broke down in Connor’s arm. He woke to a chill, a strange sound that was his teeth chattering, clinking together loud enough that it startled him. He pulled the covers up, snuggling into Connor’s side, seeking his warmth. The tremors pulled Connor from sleep, lashes fluttering in the moonlight, peering through the dark with ease. A hand reached through the darkness, resting on Markus’s cheek, gliding down his neck to rub warmth into his back.

Markus was freezing, was shivering violently even under the thick layer of blankets. It was a strange feeling, exciting, yet unpleasant. Markus briefly wonders at the moment if one day soon he'll be able to feel pain; is somewhat frightened by the thought. He shoves it aside, burrowing under the covers, pressing close to Connor for warmth. Connor first felt the cold two days after the assault, the trauma triggering a line of code or senor or program, switching something on that couldn't be turned off.

Trauma bought them to life, it made sense that it would keep delivering, releasing new sensations and emotions. Feeling the cold, the chatter of teeth was surreal, it made him feel so very alive. The warmth returning to his limbs, the cease of quivering limps, and chattering teeth was a welcome relief, though. Still, to feel the crisp coldness of the air, the way it sunk past the plating to his wires, freezing his core was incredible.

It was a gift.

A sensation of life.

A flurry of sparkling white flakes flutter down from the darkening sky, landing on coats, catching in lashes, beautiful and delicate and each one truly unique, just like his people. Markus strived off the chill by walking through the crowd of androids, offering words of encouragement, reassuring smiles. The movement kept the ice from settling in his artificial bones, the conversations were kindle to the fire burning in the pit of his stomach.

It was getting colder, the sun setting as dusk approached, but his people remained strong, _hopeful_ , a bright light standing against the dark.

**XxX**

The sun starts to set over the city, it had been lost behind thick storm clouds hours ago, but there is a sudden drop in temperature, a sense that night is creeping over the land, falling over the gathered androids. Connor has been standing for six hours straight, is frozen to the core, fingers turned numb some time ago. Yet he holds tight to the weights, antique bronze scales that symbolise the pain, the _burden_ he carries with him. Will continue to carry with him if he is unable to get justice. _Closure._ That’s what this march is really about for the survivors. An end to their pain, a chance to know the monsters who hurt them won't be able to harm anyone else. 

An end to give way to a new beginning. 

Connor blinks rapidly, fighting off the fatigue, swallowing the anxiety that's clung to him all day. Skye and Lexi stand on his left, North was at his right, but she's drifted off, speaking with either Markus or a journalist. He can't see Markus, it makes him feel uneasy, though if he reached out, he'd be there, would come running if he asked. Connor steadies himself against the desire, turns his gaze towards Hank, who's talking with detective Danvers and Rosa only thirteen feet away. Connor stands front and centre of the androids, humans surrounding them, watching, knowing a part of his story without even having to ask.

Choosing to march, standing with his fellow survivors meant revealing the truth, revealing that the first android detective had become a victim. He tries not to think about the thousands of eyes watching him, tries not listen to the curious whispers or give attention to the voice inside his head. He is standing here because he survived, and the thousands of eyes aren't dismantling their image of him. Yes, he is a victim, but it's not an ugly word or something to be ashamed of. There is no shame in what was done to him, to any of them. It was not their fault, and it certainly wasn't their choice. 

He is a victim and a survivor, a son, a partner, a friend, he is so many things, and even if the city can only see him as one of these two things, it won't matter. He is so much more. God, his thoughts are getting away from him, the coldness and fatigue making him chase jumbled thoughts around his head. He grounds himself in the present, feels bitterly cold air bite at his cheeks, hands trembling from the weight they carry. He won't let go, no matter how numb his hands become, no matter how much they shake and quiver he won't let go, won't give up. Not until the laws change, he will stand here as long as it takes, will carry this weight for all to see.

“Excuse me, you’re Connor, right?”

Connor turns to his head to the right, gaze lowering to find a young woman, she waves shyly at him, smiling sweetly. “Yes, I’m Connor,” he returns the smile, goes to offer his hand, communications programming taking the lead, “ah, I would shake your hand but-”

"- They're a little full?" she gestured at the weights, dark, perfectly manicured brows furrowing, the look vanished before Connor could analyse it, the soft, polite smile gracing her face once more.

“A little,” he sighed, flexing cold fingers against even colder metal, “or a lot.” His hands held so much more than two bronze weights, they held the memory of what Reed did to him, the trauma that followed. He'd carry this weight for the rest of his life if nothing changed today. 

“I can’t imagine what’ve been through,” the girl says softly, shakes her head then interduces herself at last, “I'm Mia Jones, I work for Illumination, and I was wondering if you'd be interested in sharing your story with us, Connor."

Connor felt knots tug in his abdomen, anxiety strumming under his skin. Mia appeared kind, a quick analyse revealed she was a brilliant writer, had worked for Illumination for three years and recently won an award for an article she wrote on android rights. She was an ally, a talented journalist and her work and social profile revealed she was a talented, loyal and loving person. There was a feeling, something he couldn't quite understand, that he could trust, that she was the right person to share his story with.

Connor, however, wasn't ready for the city, possibly the world to know his story. It had been difficult enough telling Markus and North last night, it seemed far too soon to put himself through that anguish again. Speaking it to a stranger, setting it free for the masses to read and judge was terrifying, he wasn't ready for that, not today. There was more healing that needed to be done, pain that had to be felt, fears to overcome. His story would remain unspoken today, but he made a promise to himself, and he would uphold that promise. Perhaps in the New Year, when this day was a fixed point in history, and he felt braver, he would sit down and share this horror tale with the world.

"It’s lovely to meet you.” He nods in greeting, stifling the anxiety and relying slightly on his social programming as he speaks. “I appreciate your offer, but I’m not ready to share my story at this time, it was only very recently that it happened," he explained, "but could I have a card? For when I am ready?"

“Of course.” She retrieved a piece of paper from her pocket, scribbling on it before tucking it into his coat pocket. “I don’t have a card, but that is the number for Illumination and my personal one if you can’t reach me.” She flashed him a bright smile, pink lips parting to reveal pearly white teeth. “I hope things change for you, for everyone,” she cast her hazel eyes around the gathered androids, “I’m standing with you, Connor.”

“Thank you, Mia,” he offered her a smile, hoped it was warm when all he felt was cold, hoped it concealed the anxiety that had been buzzing beneath his plating all day.

"No, thank you Connor, and good luck,” she gave him one last smile, sincere and sweet, adding "I hope to hear from you in the future,” before turning on her heels and walking away.

Connor feels the paper burn hot in his pocket, a promise to be upheld, a sign that people cared, that this fight would not be in vain. Dark lashes flutter, holding back the tears, the swell of emotion, hands tremble, air leaven his lungs in painful stutters. He shivers, fights down the rise of panic that has been building and building, inhaling the frigid air, refilling gasoline lungs. He holds fast, keeps the strings from unravelling. The attention is maddening, the hundreds of eyes and camera lens make his skin prickle, makes him feel so very exposed and vulnerable.

“You okay, son?”

Connor notices Hank's presence at his side, responding without fully returning to his mind and body, "I'm still functioning at optimal levels." He shakes his head, clearing the dialogue prompts, overriding the programming and remerging in himself completely. "Sorry, kind of detached for a bit." He takes another deep breath, lets the air replenish his lungs and tighten his seams. Later, he can break down later. "I'm okay, cold, but mostly okay."

“Don’t be sorry, Connor,” Hank pats his shoulder comfortingly, “it’s been a long day, this can’t be easy for you.”

“It’s not the worst thing I’ve endured,” he shrugged, smiling humourlessly, “and I’m not alone.”

"And you never will be," Hank vowed, rubbing soothing circles onto Connor's back, he relaxes ever so slightly under the touch. "Think you can hang in there a little while longer?"

“I’m not leaving,” he declared, determination colouring his words, rekindling the spark, sending warmth and courage through his system.

“Alright, well, neither am I,” Hank declared, stubborn as always.

“These weather conditions aren’t ideal for you,” Connor pointed out.

“They’re not ideal for you either,” he shot back, “so, looks like we’re both not leaving,” he smiled, teasingly.

Connor shakes his head, lips quirking into a genuine smile, “Fine.”

“Good,” Hank crossed his arms, face softening, eyes glistening with fatherly pride. “Whatever happens here tonight, Connor, I want you to know I’m proud of you.”

Connor would very much like to hug Hank, it would be somewhat awkward with the weights he holds, carries for all to see, though. Instead; he leans into him, feeling Hank’s arms wrap around his frozen, fragile frame. They stand together, sharing warmth, waiting with bated breath and racing hearts, praying with all the fire and hope they have left that tonight things will change.

***

It's getting late, it's so damn cold that Connor's teeth chatter. He's exhausted, wants to crawl into bed, find himself in Markus's arms, safe and warm under the covers, protected by the walls of his home. He can't go home, can't move or waver, must stay standing, must _remain_ strong. It's nearing eleven o'clock, the snow stopped falling a while ago, has settled around his booted feet, stuck to his coat and hair. The crowd has thinned out, families and elderly leaving to return to their warm homes, to their evening meals and cosy beds.

Connor and his people stay motionless in the cold, dark night, holding tight to their signs and symbols, hoping and praying that soon there will be an announcement. They wait, tired but determined, scared and hopeful. It's eleven fifteen when someone approaches Markus, speaking to him quietly before scurrying off. Markus turns to his people, a bright and triumph smile lighting up his face, lighting up this dark night. They've won. The laws will be changed. Androids will from this day on have body autonomy and the same rights as humans when it comes to the justice system. 

The night erupts in applause, in cheers, in tears. Connor is swarmed by his friends, embraced by so many arms he loses count, tries to hug back but his arms are dead at his side. He is in shock, overwhelmed by the joy and the attention, by the thousands of eyes that are watching this moment. He feels relief somewhere deep inside the cyclone of emotions that surge through him from all directions. He feels unsteady, grips tighter to the weights, breath hitching at the familiar tell-tale signs of a panic attack.

He should be happy, should be celebrating with his friends, but he suddenly feels infinitely small under the night sky, surrounded by so many others who shared his pain. He can't breathe, can't see Hank or Markus or North, can't see anything but a swarm of limbs and colour. Can't hear anything over the thunderous roar in his ears, the thudding of his beating heart and pounding of his thirium pump. He’s scared, scared of what is to come, frightened of the promises he made.

It was easy to say he'd press charges against Reed when there was no feasible way for him to do so. It was so easy to be brave in his world of make of belief, to make promises and believe everything his shiny, stronger self told him. He’s spiralling, the threads finally unravelling, leaving him to capsize in the dark seas that rage within his mind. Closing his eyes against the flash of lights, delighted, tearful faces, he withdraws into himself, building walls, towering tall and unbreakable, to keep himself safe, to keep the chaos out.

It's too much, he is overwhelmed, exhausted and frayed to the bone. Air refuses to inflate his lungs, they burn like someone drenched them in gasoline and struck a match. Numbness creeps over him, scattering the chill, leaving the disconcerting sense of being adrift, untethered in a hurricane sky. For a few terrifying moments he is lost in the darkness, suspended in panic, then there is a light shining, a hand reaching through the dark to bring him home.

Opening his eyes, he finds Markus’s standing before him, the world has grown quiet, he is all Connor can see. He exhales the panic, numbness chased away by Markus’s soothing touch, warmth and life return to his bones. Deflated, he falls forward, collapsing into Markus’s waiting arms, weights slipping free from quivering, cold fingers. Connor breathes him in, arms weakly circling his waist, clinging to him desperately.

“You’re okay, love,” Markus promises. “We won, everything’s going to be alright.”

Connor leans back, blinking the tears from his tired eyes, words struggling to leave his tongue, “I’m scared of what’s to come.”

“I know,” Markus cups his face, brushing away the tears, “we’ll face that battle when it comes, tonight is ours, tomorrow is another day.”

Markus's words scatter the last tendrils of anxiety, quieting the racing thoughts, chasing the storm from his mind. Tonight is theirs. Joy, relief spark to life, guiding him back from the dark seas. Tomorrow is another day, a new chapter, tonight is theirs, and he is going to celebrate with his friends.

“We won.” He whispered, lips stretching into a smile, eyes filling with a fresh wave of tears, the sense of triumph surging through his chest, a fire igniting. “We changed the laws!”

“We did,” Markus pulls him back into his arms, lips pressing against his temple, “we did, my love.”

Their voices were heard, their pain felt, they stood fast, remained so very damn brave, and they came out victorious. Connor holds Markus tight, feels tears crystallise on his face, hope burn bright in his heart, brighter than the flutter of nerves and anxiety of what the future will bring. There will be no chasing thoughts down a dark path tonight, the night is filled with cheer and happiness, his people are a blinding light against the dark, a force not to be reckoned with.

Tonight is theirs.

This victory is theirs.

Tomorrow is another day, one that is fast approaching, but the fear, the pain and trauma can wait.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was heavily inspired by an episode of The Bold Type and Mia Jones is inspired by Katie Steven's character from the show Jane Sloan.


	11. I Remain Painfully Alive and Beautiful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intended this to be the last chapter, but this story keeps taking on a life of its own and I was unable to get chapter 11 completed in time. (I also had to go away for an important medical appointment, which went well but travel is very tiresome.) I decided to split this chapter in half and combine the epilogue with chapter 12, so one more to go lovelies! 
> 
> PS: I am not very familiar with legal terms and the information I did learn has come from a friend in England, so I apologise if I've fumbled anything. I'm trying to focus more on Connor's journey and weave the court case into it.

It's January 2040, three weeks after New Year when Connor finds himself facing another challenging day, another event that feels like stepping onto the battlefield. Today has been a long time coming, had been on the horizon from the moment the laws changed. An inner to desire just to feel normal, to enjoy the delight of Christmas and excitement of New Year had made programming push today aside, sorting it as a low priority over the holidays, when it was anything but.

Connor knew this day would come, had tried his very best to prepare for it, to brace himself for the impact, yet when it arrived, it felt like a fist to his stomach, knocking him to his knees. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, fear had left him paralysed. The world moved madly around him, turning faster and faster until Connor felt like he was no longer a part of it. He watched the chaos unfold, frozen, _frozen_ the way he was all those months ago. Today he’d have to face Reed at the pre-trial, would be forced to answer brutal questions and paint a violent picture. Today decided so many fates, today could stretch out into weeks, months.

God, he didn’t know how he was supposed to handle this.

It doesn’t really matter. He has too, he made a promise, to himself, to future victims. No matter how great the fear is or how strong the pain that pulsates inside his chest becomes, he will follow through with that promise. He just wished he had more time, Christmas and New Year passed by so quickly, no matter how hard he clung to them. Connor busied himself in the holidays, decorating the house with green, gold and silver tinsel, stringing up lights, searching for the perfect tree.

He kissed Markus under the mistletoe and at the stroke of midnight, bringing in the New Year with joy in his heart. He swayed between coping and falling apart, found cheer in the Christmas holidays, anxiety in the quiet, cold nights. He celebrated the victory with his friends, spent the following weeks prepping for Christmas, buying gifts and helping decorate New Jericho, turning it into a winter wonderland. He buried the pain, hide it behind glittery ornaments and twinkling lights. Tucked the fear out of sight, did everything in his power to enjoy the festive season, tried to love every moment of it, even when it was so very hard.

Not every moment was difficult, there were shiny moments of happiness, hours where he was okay, days where he didn’t have panic attacks, nights slept soundlessly. Christmas and New Year were a mix of emotions, the days starting out sparkling and wonderful, joy and holiday cheer only got him so far, though. When night came, anxiety returned, the walls crashing down, letting the cold in, memories creeping out of their tightly sealed boxes. Unable to stay in the overcrowded spaces Connor would be forced to retreat, needing a quiet, safe sanctuary to hide away in for the remaining of the night.

Christmas night he spent curled up in bed with Markus, listening to him tell tales of Christmas's at Carl’s, his soothing voice chasing the fear away, wrapping around him. New Year's Eve, only minutes after the count-down, lips still warm from Markus's kiss, he took off, racing out into the bitterly cold night. North followed, took him by the hand and lead him home. They sat in front of the fire until sunrise, talking about their hopes and dreams for the future, whispering fears that the night held secret too. The next morning, the following week held no more distractions or excitement.  The excitement and vivacity of the holidays dwindled, no more sparkling lights, no more clinking of champion glasses.

Connor knew this day was coming, it had been breathing down his neck since the moment Reed was arrested. Had sat heavy upon his heart, a weight carried from day to day, minute to minute.  It arrived with plenty of warning, yet it felt like it snuck up on him. Only yesterday he'd met with the attorney, a kind, gentle, if not slightly eccentric, man named Eli Chambers, who was so very sure that he would win this case. Connor knew the evidence was stacked in their favour, even if the patched-together recorded memory was overthrown there was still the diagnostic report of the injuries he sustained from the assault.

With the added pressure on the judge, there seemed little doubt Reed would walk free. It was reassuring, but it did little to ease Connor’s fear. He still had to see Reed, be in the same _space_ as him and last time it nearly cost him his life. He reasons with himself, shakes off the fear that binds him to the bed, seeps like ice through his wires. Everything will be alright, Reed can’t harm him, won’t sneak in through the window late at night and silence him before he can talk. Markus and Hank will protect him, he will be safe, the monster from his dreams won’t get him.

Not again.

Reed will be punished for this, will be sent somewhere very far away and Connor will be able to breathe, will be able to take another step forward on the road of recovery. He just has to make it through the coming weeks, the media frenzy and invasive, brutal questions.

He just has to endure, _survive_ a little while longer.

**XxX**

Markus has gotten somewhat familiar with the sensation of anxiety, can sense it swell, a storm brewing beneath his skin. A flutter of fingers, a lightning strike, a hitch of breath, a clap of thunder then he cracks open. Sometimes it violent, leaves him pacing restlessly, panicked thoughts crashing through his head. Other times it's a gentle hum, a strumming in his wires that feels like a fault. Today he has plenty of reasons to be anxious, has felt the storm surging since he woke at dawn.

He can also sense Connor's anxiety, keeps a close eye on his reflection in the mirror, watching the stress levels climb higher as the storm churns within. Smoothing down his tie, exhaling through burning legs, Markus turns away from the mirror, it's nearly time to go, and Connor hasn't moved an inch in the last five minutes. Markus closes the distance between them, kneeling before him, studying the rapid red cycle of the LED. He is staring over Markus's shoulders, eyes fixed on the wall, chest rising and falling in short, ragged breaths.

Connor is rigid, unfocused eyes glistening with tears and fear, fingers curled into tight fists. Markus's heart breaks at the sight. Tentatively he places his hand on Connor's cheek, skin peeling away, the connection revealing just how terrified, _petrified_ he is. Connor is paralysed, memories and nightmares playing in his mind, twisting and warping into an endless horror show. Markus shudders, the gruesome imagery stirring awake emotions he doesn’t have the time for right now. Shoving the horror and anger aside, he reaches out through the darkness, hopes like hell to be heard over the thunderous thoughts.

There is a twitch, a spark of connection and Markus wades into the swirling mess of memories and fears. It's a gradual process, one he has become familiarised with, but it never gets easier. With great care, Markus dismantles the turmoil raging inside Connor's mind, scattering the violent memories, giving strength to strive off the fear. Markus fills every dark corner with light, silences the doubt and the whispers with waves of love, adoration, _devotion._

What feels like hours but is only minutes later, Markus emerges from the depth of Connor’s mind, finding the LED swirling from red to yellow to blue. Dark lashes flutter, amber eyes sparkling as Connor reappears. Panic ebbs, stress levels settle as a stuttered breath escapes past his lips in a shaky breath. Markus sighs inwardly, deflated, he slumps next to Connor, wrapping a comforting arm around his shoulders. Connor leans into him, hands gripping tightly to the fabric of his soft, grey woollen coat. The stylish trench coat had been a Christmas present from Connor, it had become a fixed piece in his daily wear since he’d received it. Markus smiles fondly, hands covering Connor’s trembling ones, reopening the connection.

 _I really like this coat,_ he muses, stroking Connor’s slender wrist. A gentle touch, a simple conversation is sometimes helpful to calm Connor after a panic attack, it gives him something else to focus on. _Did I tell you that?_

 _You may have,_ Connor replies, Markus’s feels the trickle of happiness, remembering how pleased he looked when Markus tried it on, _I knew it would look good on you._

 _It seems to have a calming effect on you,_ he noted.

Connor’s stress levels declined whenever he had something physical to focus his energy on, something tangible to hold. Just before Christmas, when Markus finally found a moment of peace, he tucked himself away in the study and spent the evening researching anxiety and treatments. It was long overdue, the information he had installed was basic at best, not nearly good enough help Connor through the rest of his recovery.

Armed with an abundance of knowledge, and data he'd collected from the past year, he concluded that sensory stimulation would be beneficial to help reduce Connor's panic attacks. Connor had always liked soft things, be it fluffy blankets or knitted sweaters if it was soft to the touch Connor loved it. Which resulted in him getting a fair number of sweaters and cardigans for Christmas, in an array of colours and designs. Markus knew sweaters, no matter how soft, wouldn't be able to reduce anxiety, he needed something else, something that could calm him at times when he was alone.

Researched pointed Markus in the direction of a weighted blanket, which had been used for years to help those suffering from anxiety and sensory issues. It was the perfect gift, Connor's face had lit up brighter than all the Christmas lights in New Jericho when he unwrapped it, slender fingers gliding over the silky navy-blue fabric. That night, when the swelling music, idle chatter and clinking glasses grew too loud for Connor, he snuck off, retreating upstairs to Markus's room.

He found Connor huddled up on his bed, bundled in the blanket, stress levels declining as heavy eyelids struggled to stay open. Markus kicked off his shoes, slipped off his coat and crawled into bed beside Connor, he spent the rest of the evening regaling Connor with stories of his Christmas's spent with Carl. Back in the present, he reaches for the blanket, wrapping it around Connor's shoulders, feeling his fingers release their iron-like grip on his coat. They have to leave very soon, but Connor's not ready, _he’s_ not ready. Outside these four walls is a world of madness, is eager eyes waiting to see how this trial will unfold.

The chaos is about to begin, Markus is not sure when it will end if it will ever truly end for him. He can endure what is to come, has faced media backlash and prejudice many times before, so has Connor, he made a rather messy entrance into the world after all. This was different though, this was personal, and people were waiting to get their grubby hands on his story, to be part of the narrative.  It was decided that the media would be kept at arms-length. They didn't want Connor's story getting twisted and spun into something it was not, though, there was a chance that could happen regardless if Connor spoke to the media.

Humans had a terrible habit of believing lies and an even worse one of telling them. This trial was going to push them, the world would try to break them, tear apart Connor's story and paint an entirely different picture. It was a tale as old as time, one that had repeated and echoed throughout history. An endless game of he said, she said, well Markus was sick of games, of the lies. For now, for a few more precious moments, Markus would keep Connor safe from the world, from the madness that was about to overtake their lives.

**XxX**

Hank finds the bleak weather is a little too unsettling today, he's never been a fan of winter days, but there is something foreboding about the gloomy, snow-laden sky stretching out over the courthouse. It's foolish to think some awful weather will affect today's outcome, he's been to enough pre-trials to know that Connor's case will move forward without much trouble. Perhaps that's what makes him feel so uneasy, he knows what is to come, knows it's not going to be easy on Connor, on any of them.

He fucking hates these things, hates how the system likes to put on a show, give the audience some razzle and dazzle. Connor's case is also the first of its kind, and the media is thrilled, vultures circling outside the courthouse, wanting to be the first to report on what could be the case of the century. People really should get fucking lives, he understands there are a lot of people that are on Connor's side, who support him, but there are just as many who want to spin his story into a profit.

Hank follows Connor and Markus up the stone steps, feels the first drop of rain just as he steps inside. The interior of the courthouse is as impressive and imposing as ever, unlike most building in Detroit the courthouse has kept its historical appearance. The antique features and marbled flooring are kept perfectly maintained, it’s birth and many trials documented in black and white pictures on the walls. It’s a building rich in history, Connor seems transfixed by the swirling grey marble floors, eyes sweeping widely as they ascend the grand staircase, no doubt scanning for protentional threats.

Hank places a steadying hand on his back, wishes he could interface like Markus, hopes Connor feels the love and strength he is sending anyway. Connor turns to face him, offering a fragile smile, Hank takes it as a win. Connor's tough, he's survived so much, helped win an android revolution, marched with his friends and helped change the damn laws. He's done so many incredible, brave things in his short life. Hank knows he's going to be okay.

They’re all going to be okay, in the end, they just have one hell of a battle to win first.

It's time to go in, Hank feels anger burn ho through his veins, twist knots in his stomach. He can barely contain the rage at the thought of seeing Reed, hates that Connor has to sit in the same room as his rapist. It's how it is though, it's fucked up and unfair, but there is nothing he can do. Everything is out of his hands, he has no sway or control over what is to come, and it kills him. He is a father, so very worried for his son and the helplessness is maddening.

Is all too familiar.

There is no other path to take, this day has been a long time coming, and Hank won't let the overload of anger and guilt consume him, not when Connor needs him. Exhaling the rage, he takes a seat; eyes fixed on the podium at the front. It's just another hellish day; he's gotten Connor through so much already, he's sure as hell going to get him through this.

**XxX**

Reed seems just like all the other men that visited the Eden Club. He is an insignificant human with issues upon issues that have warped into a violent rage and twisted desires. North takes one look at him and decides she'd like to snap his neck like a twig. There is an air of arrogance to him, a hint of danger glinting in those dark eyes. He looks like trouble, like a cardboard cut-out of a bad boy, but North can see the evil within, but only because she’s seen it so many times before. Connor didn’t stand a chance, no one stands a chance against men like Reed, who charm and lie, who fake smiles and make the world turn a blind eye.

The lies leave Reed’s tongue with ease, there is no hint of the man he truly is, polite and polished he appears, spinning tales that make North’s blue blood boil. Markus keeps a steady hand on her shoulder, a reminder to hold her tongue, to not streak across the room and rip Reed limb from limb. She holds back the swelling rage, bristles when Reed pleads innocent, insists it was a misunderstanding, he wasn’t aware of what he was doing, the red ice is to blame. North knows all too well how dangers humans are when high on red ice, but it doesn’t turn them into rapists. That part of them that yarns to hurt and control exists long before any drug enters their system.

It's Connor's turn; next, she and Markus connect with him via their wireless interface, moving with him to the podium, the link powerful enough that Connor would feel their touch, an invisible comfort he desperately needs. They stand at his side as he tells a room full of strangers and law enforcement of the day he was raped, revealing the real story, showing everyone how cruel and wicked Reed is. North senses the pain this causes him, feels the tears on her cheeks as if they were her own. Connor's memories of the vicious assault flicker in her mind, helplessness and fear making a home in her chest.

He's so fucking scared, is terrified of Reed, but he stays so damn strong, so damn brave despite the fear threatening to tear him apart. She is proud of him for keeping his chin held high as he speaks, his story filling every space in the room, breaking hearts and swaying minds. Connor's pain is so tangible, it's gut-wrenching and God-awful, but it's so much louder than Reed's lies. Reed knows it too; a quick glance his way and North knows he's starting to panic.

Good, let this be the beginning of his downfall.

There is a spark of pain so deep, so profound through the connection that North nearly cries out. The retelling of his rape in such a brutal, honest way has awoken something deep inside Connor, unleashing an agony that North can barely stand. Markus tenses beside her, eyes fluttering shut, she follows suit, embracing Connor in an invisible embrace, offering comfort, trying to stop the sudden wave of pain from consuming him. It's not easy, Connor is so very ready to unravel, each word spoken glass in his throat, leaving the taste of dirt and stale water behind.

It feels like centuries, like years upon years of torture before Connor can leave the stand and the hearing draws to a close. By the time they stumble back out into the grey light of day, the treads have come loose. Connor is unravelling, and North is spiralling with him. The is an urge, a _need_ to be clean, to scrub away at her skin until she finds the white plating beneath. This desire does not belong to her, though it has been felt before, it’s pouring through the connection, the only thought in Connor’s mind.

North takes his hand, there is no point lingering here any longer, and tells Markus and Hank that she’s taking Connor back to New Jericho. Hank looks like he might object, but Markus interrupts him by hailing a taxi.  North doesn't allow either Hank or Markus the chance to hug Connor; he'd only recoil, feel unwanted hands instead of loving ones. She ushers him into the taxi, climbing in after him, laying her hand, palm up, on the middle seat, an offer he is more than welcome to refuse.  

He doesn't, nimble fingers lace through her delicate ones, his hand trembles, skin cold as ice. North sense how close he is to a breakdown, to coming violently undone.

She holds tight to his hand and waits for the hurricane to come.

**XxX**

He feels dirty, _unclean_ , no matter how hard he scrubs the sensation won’t disappear. The water turns blue, Connor can still _feel him_ , hands roaming, bruising and violent, fingers invading, taking and breaking until all he knows is pain. He sheds his skin, scrubbing furiously, desperate to be clean, to feel something other than the overwhelming sense of wrong, _dirty_. The water cascades over him, hot enough it would burn human flesh, but Connor doesn’t feel anything but the phantom touch.

He wants to be clean, to be shiny and new. He needs to scrub, peel and pull the plating free, remove every place Reed touched, every inch of tainted skin. If only there were an empty vessel to transfer into, a body that did not remember the awful things Reed did to it. It wouldn't matter though, a new body, a scolding shower and all the soap in the world couldn't erase the memory. This feeling of dirty, tarnished, _tainted_ is all-consuming, pain and panic have awoken, are tearing through him like a hurricane, destroying the life he's rebuilt.

It's just a panic attack, just a perfectly normal reaction to seeing Reed, it will pass, but in this moment, Connor can't see the horizon. It's like time has unravelled, memories blur with reality, mind glitching with alarms and warnings, the world turning into a whirling mess of panic and madness. He scrubs, and he cries, suspended in the past, trapped in the memory of returning home, broken and bleeding, unravelling under the spray of water. The aftermath hurt almost as much as the assault, confusion, shame, paralysing fear shattered him apart, forcing him to make a choice he regrets.

Forgetting seemed like the only option, remembering would hurt far too much, he was sure at the time he’d never survive the agony of the aftermath, erasing it was a perfect solution. Connor was a fool to think he could outrun _this_ pain, that it could be swept away, and he’d go on with his life like nothing ever happened. Months later his mind, _his body_ still remembers, God he never stood a chance. Shedding his skin, scrubbing until he is a mess of blue won't take this agony away. This pain will fade, this panic will release him, he just has to breathe, fill burning lungs with air, focus, breathe, breathe, _breathe_. Quivering fingers drop the sponge to the tiled floor, chest hitching in a jagged rush of air.

North's bathroom comes into focus, warning and screeching alarms silenced as Connor retakes control of his body. He looks down at himself, skin slipping back over his shell, glitching and damaged in places he scrubbed too hard. Rising on shaky legs, numbness taking over, he turns off the faucet, stepping out into the steam covered room. He doesn't remember the ride home from the courthouse, vaguely recalls North leading him upstairs to the bathroom before leaving so he come undone in peace. Reaching out with his mind he can sense North, she is just beyond the door, leaning against the wall, listening, at the ready in case he needs her.

 _You okay?_ She asked, concern palpable through the link. _Another minute and I was going to come in._

 _I’m okay_ he isn’t, he is a hundred miles in the wrong direction of okay, but he feels far too vulnerable, e _xposed_ to let North in.

 _No, you’re not,_ she said matter-of-factly, _and that’s okay. After this morning no one expects you to be._

 _I felt him._ He paused, throat tightening at the confession even though he is not speaking the words allowed. The sensation he learnt was nausea twisting in his gut. _I feel unclean._

 _I know that feeling,_ she revealed, voice heavy with sorrow, a spark of anger. _I used to wake up in the dead of night screaming, body burning with the touch of a hundred men. I was repulsed by touch, by my own fucking reflection._ Disgust and anguish flicker through the link, fleeting images of nights spent waking alone and afraid play in Connor’s mind. _I was a scantily clad doll stuck in a glass case, my body on display for everyone. It was theirs to abuse and break and beat, I was a plaything that they loved to take apart. I hated myself almost as much as I hated them._

Connor feels the prickle of tears, an echo of North’s trickling down his face.

 _After the revolution, I started to see myself. Differently, I was more than what they designed me for._ Fiercens and self-worth replace the negative emotions, the hatred for herself was slowly dismantled, Markus, Skye, Josh, Simon and other survivors showing her that she was more than a pretty doll to be broken. _My body was a weapon, was strong and unbreakable, because it survived all the cruel and wicked things, they did to me. I was beautiful and alive, and my body was **mine**. _

Connor, fully dressed, slipped out the door, sinking to the floor next to North, who looked at him with fire in her eyes and strength burning in her heart. “

You’re not tainted, you’re not ruined,” she promised, voice full of conviction and love, “you are painfully alive and beautiful, Connor.”

“Will it go away?” he asked weakly, letting North’s words settle on his skin, sink beneath where they can start to heal, can chase the phantom echo of touch from this fragile frame.

"It will get better," she assured, a teary smile gracing her face, "you have already gotten so much better,” she reminded him, a painted fingertip poking his nose, a playful gesture to lighten this dark day. “It's just a terrible fucking day."

“It’s certainly been one of the worst,” he admits, dropping his weary head to rest on her shoulder.

There is so much more he wants to say, words build and grow within his chest, but they aren't ready to see the light of day. He's been through enough today, _relieved_ enough. He needs a break from the cyclonic thoughts, a reprieve from the darkness that settled in once more like an old friend. There will come a time when he is able to speak of the things that burden him, that haunt and taunt him. In that moment the words will rise, nothing holding them back, and he'll speak of all the things he's not ready to say right now.

**XxX**

Markus hates this, it takes all his strength not to follow North and Connor back to New Jericho, but Connor needs space, needs North. He is left standing on the pavement, the courthouse looming over him, beautiful in design, yet unsettling against the backdrop of grey sky. Hank is frozen next to him, gaze fixed on the place Connor was just standing. This is killing him, Markus can see the pain so clearly in his blue eyes, can sense it ripple in the air between them. Hank must be fighting off the same urge to give chase as Markus.

When Connor hurts, they hurt, when he breaks, they carefully and loving rebuild him. He will fall apart and come together again, only this time Markus won’t be there to dry the tears, to help pick up the pieces. Connor needs North, no one else. Markus accepts this, knows that Connor and North have formed an unbreakable bond, their shared pain linking them together, creating a friendship that is admirable and strong. North has come such a long way from the angry, defeated girl he met, she's risen above the rage, the darkness in her heart and grown into the kind, independent woman who shared her past to help change their future.

She opened her heart to Connor, understood his pain in a way Markus never would, and that was okay. He was grateful she was there to pick up the jagged pieces when he couldn't, that she could soothe Connor when the right words failed him. They needed each other, more than ever at a time like this and no matter how much Markus ached to be with Connor he'd stay away until he was ready for him to return. Markus is not alone in the desire to follow Connor back to New Jericho, Hank is uneasy at his side, frustrated at not being able to comfort Connor.

“He’ll be okay,” Markus reassured, “North will look after him.”

Hank nods stiffly, arms folding over his chest. "Yeah I know, I just hate seeing him so upset." He looks towards the courthouse, eyes darkening, a threatening storm looming below the surface, "It must have been hell having to sit there and listen to Reed lie."

"We knew he would," Markus revealed, anger coiling in his wires. Sometimes the rage burns so bright, so violent that it overrides thought and reason, pushes him so close to the ledge. His love for Connor and his people the only thing holding him back. He hates Reed with every inch of his being, wants to destroy him the way he tried to destroy Connor. He is the android leader, inspired a revolution on peace and fairness, he can’t shatter that image now.  "We always knew today wasn't going to be easy on Connor,” he continued, letting the rage expel from his lungs, float away on the winter breeze, “on any of us, but we've made it through. We've done all we can for Connor, now we need to give him and North some space.” He places a comforting hand on Hank's shoulder, watching the slow decline of his stress levels. "Why don't we go for a coffee and talk?"

“Sure, why not,” he shrugged, retrieving his keys from his coat pocket, “beats standing around here in the cold.”

"I know a place nearby," he said, matching Hank's stride as they walked towards the parking lot, "it was one of Carl's favourite, and he was rather picky with his coffee."

Hank chuckled, shaking his head slightly, “cops are the least picky coffee drinkers on the planet, but I’d enjoy tasting some good quality stuff.”

“You won’t be disappointed,” Markus flashes him a smile, relieved to see the darkness vanish from Hank’s eyes, to feel it fade from the air around them.

***

Markus arrives home just as the sun sinks below the horizon, the dark clouds of the day parting to reveal a clear night sky, stars bright and glittering like the city lights. The front door opens automatically, warm air drifting out to greet him, chasing the cold from his artificial bones. The house is relatively quiet, hallway lit in the golden glow of the glistening chandelier. Fine-tuning his hearing Markus can detect music coming from the living room.

He follows the sound, stepping through darkened hallways, emerging in the light of the TV, finding North and Connor curled up on the couch. They've changed out of their suits, look sleepy and content in the light of the fire, safe bundled in their blankets, protected by these walls. God, it's been a long day. Markus collapses to the empty spot beside Connor, grateful to be home, relieved to see Connor without tears in his eyes and fear in his heart.

He can't focus on the movie, mind scattered, troubled thoughts and anxiety pulling him from this safe place. Today has been hell, and he's lived through some truly awful days, but never has he felt Connor's pain so profoundly. It took all of his strength to stay seated, the urge to kill Reed, to silence his lies was overwhelming, but feeling Connor's pain, his agony was something all else altogether. It was heartbreaking and gut-wrenching, sudden and swift as a bullet through the chest, it left him shaken.

It's why he let North take Connor home without question, he knew how much Connor needed to be somewhere familiar and safe. The brief moment of anguish Markus felt lingered for the rest of the day, a coldness settling into his hardware. He put on a brave face for Hank, remained composed as they spoke about what the coming weeks would bring. The anxiety faded to a background noise when the café flooded with life, chatter and clinking china scattering the churning thoughts momentarily.

He enjoyed spending time with Hank, learning more about the lieutenant had been an objective of his for a while now, but he’d had little chance over the past few months. The few times he did spend alone with Hank consisted mostly of sharing concern for Connor. Hank was a fascinating person, a very talented detective and a great father. It made Markus miss Carl deeply. A voice of reason, a guiding light is something he desperately needed. Carl’s wisdom couldn’t be matched, his compassion inspiring and no matter how many times Markus replayed old memories it wouldn’t be enough to fill the void. To erase the heartache and loneliness from his chest.

Markus felt lost, was angry at the world for all the misery and suffering it was causing the people he loved. Which wasn't right, this wasn't his pain, he'd never know what Connor and North went through, but today he felt it, and just that small taste has left him paralysed. He'd been going through the motions, forcing smiles, polite conversation and maintaining the image of a peaceful leader. He distracted himself regaling Hank with tales of building New Jericho and listened to him talk about the life he’d lost and the one that found him.

In the darkness he feels the walls crumble, the strength turns to dust in his wires. He wants to break things, to lash out at the unfairness of the world, to splinter and shatter, spill sharp, glistening pieces over the rug, reveal just how jagged and broken he is. This storm has been building since dawn, could tear through him, bring him to his knees right before his friend’s eyes. It’s not right, he can’t break apart in front of Connor, not again, not today of all days.

He’s about to leave, to pace the streets and let the rage burn, let the storm explode into the night, allow the fear and misery to consume, to be the only thing he feels. He’s ready to go, is already out the door, running, running, _running_ into the night, screaming loud enough for the whole damn city to hear, when he feels Connor take his hand. Like that the storm washes away, chased by a single whisper in his mind, scattered by waves of love so pure, so powerful it could change the world.

Markus exhales the rage, the madness, fingers tangling with Connor's, grip tight, afraid to let go, scared that if he does, he'll fall apart. Connor tells him to breathe, breathe and it will be alright, hold on just a little while longer, and the storm will pass. Connor's courage outshines his pain, the desire to live, to fight burns brightly through him, hope, love and trust guiding him through the dark. Strings cut, depilated of all energy, Markus sags against Connor's shoulder like a rag doll.

Soft lips brush over his forehead, Markus relaxes under the gentle touch. Love crests through the connection, a beautiful melody singing through his wires, becoming the only thing he can feel. Exhausted, worn to the bone, heavy eyes flutter shut, systems shutting down as Markus falls asleep.

Safe in the home he helped rebuild and protected by the man he loves.

**XxX**

Strength comes and goes in waves, memories sneak in without warning, triggering pain and sorrow, darkening the day, capsizing Connor in churning waters. It comes and goes in waves, in an endless ebb of an invisible tide carrying him from one mood to the next. Connor is tired of getting caught in the undercurrent, can’t handle one more restless night or bad day. The waves rise up, the dark waters swallowing him and spitting him back out, drenched and chocking on misery and fear. He needs help, to reach out for the offered rope and let it tug him back to shore.

Of course, the metaphoric imagery is a lot easier to picture, to consider, than the real thing, but he will drown if he does nothing. So today at group, surrounded by friends and familiar faces, he’s going to share, to bring his pain into the light and speak the fears that weigh heavily on his heart. He sits under the glass ceiling, fingers drumming a restless rhythm on his knee, this isn’t going to easy, hell it’s probably going to hurt like hell, but the pain and fear will only grow, _fester_ , if he does not release it.

The words rise up his throat, are sharp and jagged in his mouth, taste like cigarettes and stale water as he speaks them. “The other day at court, when I saw Reed… I felt him, I felt everything he did to me.” He closes his eyes against the pain, struggling to find the right words, to get them to leave his tongue. “Every time I looked at him it felt like _it_ was happening all over again,” his breath hitches, tears fighting against closed lids to escape into the light, “like it’s going to keep happening for the rest of my life.” He swallows thickly, eyes fluttering open, taking in the room, the safe space before him.

"I go home, and I feel _his_ eyes following me around the house, I feel his hands on my skin, his breath against my neck. I feel unsafe everywhere I go, and it's exhausting." His folds his arms over his chest in attempt to self-soothe. "I know I'm safe, that he's locked up in a jail cell, but all I can think about is that one time I wasn't safe. That one day where my strength and fighting skills weren't enough to keep me from harm." He paused, throat aching, feeling like he'd swallowed gasoline, each word a match striking, the silence the spark, so the words keep coming. "I'm afraid all the time, and I don't know how to make it stop."

“It’s okay to be afraid, Connor.” Skye says softly, she’s become the group leader, the calming voice in the raging sea, “the fear will lesson in time, it’s perfectly reasonable for it to be heightened right now. Reed is the biggest trigger of them all.” She leant forward, pausing in thought, absentmindedly tucking a stray strand of blue hair behind her ear. “We need to find a way to ease the panic, it might be difficult to remove the fear of seeing Reed, but if we can manage it in between court dates, you’ll feel a lot better.”

"I considered putting bars on my windows," he doesn't say that he poured through Hank's overcrowded tool chest in search of a deadbolt for the front door. He upturned the whole thing, spilling its contents all over the garage floor, spanners and hammers clanking loudly on the concrete. He'd seen the bolt five months ago while searching for a screwdriver, image storing away, filed away in his ever-expanding library of memories. Relief flooded his chest when he found it, a small offering of safety, "but then I'd be the one in prison, and Hank would definitely notice." If Hank noticed the deadlock then he hasn't said anything, then again Connor's made several changes around the house that seem to escape Hank’s notice. He’s arranged the bookshelf in one-hundred and twenty ways over the past year and restacked and reorganised every pantry in the house seventy-five times. He cleans when he is anxious, finds the distraction of tidying up and rearranging comforting.

"We've lived in cages long enough," North chimes in, pulling Connor back to the present, memory of securing the deadbolt to the front door feeling slightly safer fading away. "Maybe you could stay at New Jericho for a while?" she suggested, eyes lighting up at the idea. "You've always felt safer there anyway."

“I… what about Hank?” he asked, words tripping off his tongue.

The idea is tempting; New Jericho has always felt like a haven, Markus’s house a second home. Connor spent most days there, more so since the pre-trial as being home alone was making him feel afraid again. The days spent at New Jericho, be it with Markus or North, were always more manageable. He was less afraid to venture out into the streets, the urge to check for danger, the closet object that could be used as a weapon becoming a low priority, none existent on a good day. Jericho felt safe, felt far removed from the world, from all the cruelty and madness.

Connor didn’t want to leave Hank though; he’d been so miserable before he moved in, consumed by grief, drowning his sorrows in whiskey, living under the shadow of guilt and misery. Connor doesn’t want the loneliness and self-destructive behaviour to return. He couldn’t leave Hank, the unlikely man he became a father to him. Connor needed him; they needed each other. “Hank’s my family; I don’t want him to think I’m abandoning him.”

“Connor, Hank is capable of looking after himself,” North insisted, “also he loves you, he’d want you to be somewhere that makes you feel safe.”

Connor lowers his eyes, teeth sinking into his bottom lip, a nervous habit that been there long before he became deviant. “I’d feel guilty,” he admits, voice small and broken.

“Guilty about leaving Hank or because you don’t feel safe at home?” Skye asked, plucking out exactly what Connor hadn’t been able to say.

“Both, I guess,” he shrugged, running a trembling hand through his hair, feeling anxiety rise, the need for the attention to be on someone else making him squirm under Skye’s steady gaze. “Can I think about it?”

“Of course, Connor,” she smiled, a glint of knowing reflected in her eyes, “why don’t we continue this conversation next time?”

Connor nods, relief flooding his system when Skye turns to Waverly. He remains quiet for the next half hour, letting the others speak. When group ends, he leaves in a hurry, feeling an anxious prickle propel him out the door. He slips into the passenger-seat of Hank’s beat up old car, fiddling with the heater, trying to dislodge the chill that has settled beneath his plating, but it won’t budge, has returned home after weeks of being absent. He settles for curling up in the seat, pointedly ignoring the concerned glances from Hank.

“You okay, Connor?” he asked, hand leaving the steering wheel to ruffle Connor’s hair.

“I’m fine, just cold,” he replied, feeling guilt unfold in the pit of his stomach.

Hank cared so much for him, he'd taken Connor in, opened his home and heart to him, but that home, filled with memories of becoming human, of learning to be a son, his brightest and darkest hours, felt unsafe. The widow's entryways for monsters, doors an opening for danger. Time spent alone there left Connor hearing noises that were not there, seeing shadows twist and turn into monsters, darkened rooms concealing beasts. These fears have come to life in the New Year, bought to life by the trial looming over him, uncertainty turning into creatures that come out to play in the dead of night. Fear has returned with a vengeance, bringing with it memories that warp into terrifying nightmares.

Connor nods, relief flooding his system when Skye turns to Waverly. He remains quiet for the next half hour, letting the others speak. When group ends, he leaves in a hurry, feeling anxiety propel him out the door. Usually, Markus is there waiting for him, standing tall and handsome under the awning, eyes glistening with love and warmth, but tonight the spot is empty.  Connor doesn’t spare it another glance, slightly relieved that Markus isn’t there waiting, he is restless, wants to go home and curl up under the covers.

Connor slips into the passenger-seat of Hank’s beat up old car, fiddling with the heater, trying to dislodge the chill that has returned after weeks of being absent, but it refuses to leave these fragile bones. He settles for curling up in the seat, pointedly ignoring the concerned glances from Hank.

 “You sure?” Hank’s eyes flicker from the road to him, calling him back from the dark, cold nights, “if somethin’s bothering you, you can tell me.” He paused, indicating to turn left, ten minutes and they would be home. Sumo would be waiting eagerly to see them. “Is it the trial?”

“No.” He shakes his head, catches his LED cycle yellow in the windshield, making him a liar. “Well, the trial is often on my mind," he sighed, head dropping to rest against the cold glass of the window. He's not ready to talk about this. Doesn't want to admit to Hank that he's afraid all the time, that at night his systems stir awake at the slightest sound. Doesn't want to confess that he feels terrified in his own home. "I'm not ready to talk about it." 

"That's alright, son," he squeezes his shoulder reassuringly. "I'm here when you're ready."

"I know," he lifted his weary head, offering Hank a smile in the dark, "thanks, dad."

**XxX**

Connor’s hands are shaking, the paper crinkling between his uncooperative fingers. Gritting his teeth in frustration he scrunches the half-formed origami swan into a ball, tossing it carelessly to the floor. Androids are meant to have perfect dexterity, yet Connor’s hands tremble like the wires have gone faulty, but a diagnostic report always reveals that his hands are fully functional. It’s not a problem to be found by exposing wires and plastic veins, the tremor cannot be fixed, it’s a part of him, is a reminder of the trauma he endured.

Reed took so much from him, caused pain that trickles out in different stages, giving birth to new fears, causing malfunctions that no android in functional working order should experience. Trauma runs deep, is plucked out and healed only to still have threads woven deeply into his skin. Connor tugs and tears at the exposed threads, wants to rip them free, but it doesn't work like that. Instead: he folds a piece of paper into an aeroplane, sends it sailing across the room where it crashes into the blinds.

The night winks at him, a sliver of the world looking through the gap the plane opened. Connor shudders, jumping to his feet and snatching up the paper plan, making sure the darkness and all the creatures hiding within it can't see in. Hearing footsteps approach, Connor turns around to see Hank in the doorway, holding two steaming mugs of tea. Connor accepts the cup, smiling gratefully as he settles back on the bed, wrapping the blanket Markus gifted him for Christmas around his shoulders.

Hank perches on the edge of the bed, sipping tea from the sunshine yellow mug Connor made for him for Christmas, World’s Best Dad written in almost perfect print painted on the side. He can’t imagine leaving Hank, packing his things and moving into another room, another place. This old, charming bungalow was the first place Connor felt safe, felt loved. These walls hold so many fond memories, this house witnessed Connor shift from CyberLife’s puppet to deviant fighting for his freedom. It’s seen his rise and fall, heard him cry in agony and laugh with joy, it’s kept him safe from storms, from the cruel, hungry world right outside the door.

It's home, yet it doesn't feel like it, not when he is alone, not when the sun is gone, and the shadows seem alive and dangerous. Hank's presence helps, a mound of blankets and Sumo help, but the fear still hovers, a phantom feeling against his skin. Guilt knots the wires in his gut, North's offer replaying in his mind. Hank must catch the shift, the spike of distress because Connor can feel questioning eyes boring into him. He keeps pretending that he is fine, that the anxiety and fear haven't become a storm raging through his head, but he is tired, is afraid, and Hank is a damn good detective and a good father. He knows that something is wrong.

Connor takes a sip of his tea, savouring the sweet flavour, before opening his mouth to say, “I’m scared, dad.”

“I know you are.” He said, sighing softly. “I’ve noticed how tense you’ve been lately and the shiny new deadbolt on the door.” He gives Connor what he’s labelled the ‘I am a detective’ look. “It’s perfectly reasonable for you to feel afraid right now, Connor.”

"I know," he said, sounding like a broken record. He knows it's okay to feel this way, that these reactions are normal, he's just tired of it. Tired of feeling afraid, tired of the nightmares and the concerned glances from friends. He wants to feel the way he did following the night of the march, inspired and courageous, hopeful and able to see the brighter, better days ahead. Fear returned like an old friend, bringing with it night terrors and panic attacks, making hands shake, making this house no longer feel like a home.

“Connor, hey, talk to me,” Hank’s touch startled him back to the moment, he peered over at him through glistening, pensive blue eyes, “tell me how I can help, son.”

“I don’t know if you can.” He admitted, drawing his knees to his chest, arms lacing around them. “I just feel so afraid all the time. I can’t sleep at night because every noise wakes me and when I do, I have nightmares.” His head drops to his knees, a sigh of defeat escaping past parted lips, guilty words following. “The only time I don’t feel as afraid is when I’m at Jericho.”

“I have noticed that,” Hank relieved, “which is understandable.”

"It is?" he asked, looking up to meet Hank's gaze.

“Of course,” he lips quirk into a gentle smile, “at first, I thought it was because you felt safer with Markus and North, but then I realised, it’s because there are no humans at Jericho.”

"Oh." Home wasn't the problem, it was the houses surrounding it, the human neighbours living within them. Jericho was a gated community just for androids, a sanctuary for those who had no safe place to go, who needed protection from the cruel world. Not every human is dangerous, but one was, one hurt him in the most brutal, intimate way, and that leaves behind a fear that sees no thought or reason. Reed turned everyone else into monsters, into threats that couldn't be ignored, even when they couldn't be seen. This fear could last a lifetime, or it could heal, fade with the rebuilding of trust and small steps back into the human world.

For now, it was too much to overcome.

"North suggested I move to Jericho," he finally says, searching Hank's eyes for a flicker of betrayal.

“Markus and I discussed that the other day,” Hank revealed, “I’ve been meaning to bring it up with you, but truthfully I don’t want you to leave. It’s not up to me though, it’s your choice and if you feel safer there than that’s all that matters.” He takes a sip of tea, reaching out to squeeze Connor’s hand. “It’s selfish of me to ask you to stay when it’s clearly causing your anxiety to worsen. I can survive without you for however long you’re gone.”

“I’ll miss you though,” he confessed, fingers tightening around Hank’s.

"I'll miss you too, but you're not moving to Mars, you can still come to visit and stay over.” He squeezed Connor’s hand, adding, “this will always be your home, Connor."

“I know,” Connor returns the smile, blinking away the stinging sensation from his eyes. “Who’ll take care of you though?”

"I'm fifty-five, Connor I can look after myself," he reassured, rolling his eyes good-humouredly.

“You weren’t doing so well before I got here,” he pointed out.

“True,” he admitted, lips flickering into a fond smile, warmth lighting up his tired eyes as he said, “but I didn’t have anything to live for back then.”

Connor unfurls from the covers, pulling Hank into his arms, this time unable to stop the fresh trickle of tears. “I love you.”

"I love you too, son." He hugs Connor tight, engulfing him in arms, shielding him from the world. "Also, another thing that could help you feel safer is practising some self-defence."

 “I'm already equipped with over two dozen fighting techniques,” he reminded Hank.

"Yeah, I know that, but maybe practising them might help you feel more in control.” Connor feels him shrug against him. “It's worth a try, isn't it?"

“I can see the benefit of it,” he murmured, leaning back. “It has been some time since I've done any form of combat training-” Connor pauses thoughtfully, remembering how after deviating he became prone to making mistakes, finding his mind often pulled in different directions, especially if he was concerned for Hank while trying to apprehend a criminal “-and deviancy allows for distractions. There would be no harm in sharpening my skills.” Connor’s lips pull into a smile, as cherished and very overplayed footage resurface. "I used to spar with Markus."

Memories of training with Markus after the revolution flicker to life. Sessions that started as lessons to teach Markus how to protect himself turning into heated make-outs as their infatuation for each other grew, the desire to discover, to devour taking control. The memory dissolves before it can replay their most intimate moments, there is a pleasant warmth in Connor's chest to his surprise. He doesn't give it much thought, chooses to enjoy it rather than chase it in circles and pick it's meaning to pieces. "As a former caretaker model, he had no use for combat skills, even after downloading several techniques he still needed guidance."

"Well, maybe you two can pick that up again?" Hank suggested, finishing his tea, "I'd offer, but my bones are far too frail."

“I am sure you’d be an adequate sparring partner.”

"Your kiss arse programming is taking control again,” he quipped.

“I’ll talk with Markus then,” he replied, feeling the embers burning bright, scattering the fear for the time being.

“Good,” Hank stands, ruffling Connor’s hair affectionately, “I’m going to shower before I pass out, you want me to bunk with you tonight?”

“I’d like that, thank you.”

“Alright, I’ll be back in ten.”

Connor watches him leave, listens to the shower start before crawling back under the covers. He's thinking of reading something while he waits for Hank to return, there is an ever-growing pile of books by the armchair, waiting to be read. On his nightstand, is a half-read copy of Romeo and Juliet, another gift from Markus. He slinks low under the covers, the desire to sleep, to recharge outweighing the one to read. Curling up under the covers, system switching to low power mode, putting him into standby. A loud noise would wake him or a surge of anxiety, but if the night stays quiet, peaceful, then he'll drift off without worry.

Assured by Hank’s promised return, the darkness lures him in, and for the first night in weeks, he sleeps throughout the night, waking to a rain drizzled dawn.

 


	12. The Reappearance of Connor Anderson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies, so here we are, at long last! Thank for coming on this journey with me, it's been an emotional ride, and I'm sad to see this story come to an end. It's been a pleasure writing this, and I appreciate everyone for being so patient with me :) 
> 
> I really hope this ending is satisfying, it took a while to write, and it's been tweaked and written a few times. This is the end result, and I am proud of it. This fic took a lot of emotionally effort and late nights, I'm sad its drawn to a close, but it's time to for me to have a break and in the New Year, I plan on writing some other RK100 fics.
> 
> Until then, happy holidays and may you enjoy the rest of Connor's journey.

Connor wakes to a gentle touch, nose crinkling as something soft and delicate trails over his skin. Eyes open to find Markus leaning over him, a lazy smile lighting up his face, arm outstretched towards his face. The bristles of a paintbrush tickle the bridge of Connor's nose, he laughs sleepily, turning his face into the pillow to shield it from Markus. Strong fingers tangle in his hair, a gentle encouragement to emerge. Connor's never been able to resist the pull of Markus; he'd walked right through Connor's towering walls and programming, a few words and Connor gave up everything he thought he knew to follow him into battle.

He risked it all for this man, would do so over and over.

Lifting his head Connor meets Markus’s miss-matched eyes, getting lost in dazzling light that gleams there like the brightest of flames. It’s been so long since he’s felt this content, felt rested and at ease in himself. Since moving to Jericho, a little over a week ago, Connor’s mood has improved. The nights are spent sleeping soundlessly, safe and sound in Markus’s arms; the days are filled with friends and adventure. North doesn’t give him time to sit and wallow; she always has something planned for them.

Unlike before Connor doesn't feel as though he's neglecting his emotions, he's recovered enough to truly have days where he can go without panic attacks and breakdowns. That doesn't mean he's not afraid at times. The trial looms over him like a storm cloud, Monday is fast approaching, and he is terrified of stepping back into the courtroom, of seeing Reed. He's not going to darken this beautiful, rare sunny morning with thoughts of Reed and events he can't control.

He’s going to embrace the light when it finds him and hold on to it for dear life.

Pain and panic will return, the trial is going to be hell, but he is not alone, he will never be alone. There is strength in that knowledge. Love and affection glisten in Markus’s eyes, trickling through the connection, carrying him to a place of peace. He is going to live in the light, bathe in the glow of Markus’s dazzling smile and tender gaze, cherish these stolen moments before the day rushes in and takes them. It’s five twenty-six, the day has barely begun. Today is just for them, no meetings or functions to attend, no buzzing media or need to go out. The early hours of dawn will shield them from the madness of the day, will grant them tranquillity and harmony, be a soft melody that will keep them safe.

“Good morning, love.”

"Good morning." Connor sits up, taking the brush from Markus's hand, returning the gesture by trailing it down the side of his face and over his chiselled jaw. "It's been a while since we painted together."

“It has,” Markus’s slender fingers wrap around Connor’s wrist, not stopping the motion of the brush, just a comforting touch to steady the slight tremor. “Would you like to? We have the entire day to ourselves.”

"I'd like that," he drags the brush down Markus's neck, swirling patterns against the heated skin. "I like it when it's just us, the world feels far away… like we've carved out our own reality, and we can exist in it." He trails off, shaking away the messy tendril of thoughts, his CPU hasn't fully woken yet it seems. "If that makes sense?"

"It does," Markus hums, a soft smile gracing his handsome face, "and I think it's safe to say you're at the stage where we can forget the world awhile." He brings Connor's hand to his mouth, words whispering over the cool synthetic skin. "I think we both need to, that's why I arranged for everyone to be out today. After this week we're not going to get a reprieve for a while, so today is just for us." He presses a kiss to Connor's hand, smiling against his skin. "So, what do you say, my love, want to hide away from the world awhile?"

“I’d love nothing more.” Connor leans towards Markus, carried by the brightness of the morning, by the hope rekindled in his heart, and captures his’s lips in a delicate, tender kiss.

**XxX**

Connor’s not as talented when it comes to painting as Markus; he has a skill that transcends programming and design, talent acquired from years of watching Carl, from being given encouragement and praise. Markus creates masterpieces, creates beautiful pieces of art that have captured the attention of many, that inspire and evoke. There has been talk of Markus opening a gallery; he can speak louder with art, can breach the gap between human and android with the simple stroke of a brush. He’ll paint a path for them straight into the world, sway minds and open hearts with colourful imagery.

Markus paints like he loves, images created with deep, vivid colours, thought and passion going into each stroke. Connor is memorised by his work, lulled into a sense of safety as he watches Markus paint, blues and purples mingling to create an abstract image. Connor’s not sure what it will be yet, his eye for art and ability to understand it is limited, sometimes the analytical programming gets in the way, searching for faces, for sense in something that isn’t supposed to be understood.

It’s meant to be felt.

“You’re staring,” Markus murmured, not looking away from the canvas.

“I like what I see,” he hummed in reply, abandoning his canvas, gravitating towards Markus like he is the sun and he will wither without his bright, warm light.

“It’s not much of anything yet.”

“I wasn’t talking about the painting,” he stated, coming to stand behind Markus, resting his chin on his shoulder.

Markus pivots, arms winding around Connor’s slender waist, paint covered fingers leaving streaks of colour on the old sweater. Tempted, lured by Markus’s beauty Connor leans in, drawing him in for a kiss. It’s been so long since Connor felt brave enough to kiss the man he loved like this. He brings his hands up, lacing a crown around Markus’s neck, holding him close, deepening the kiss. Encouraged by the lack of fear Connor leans into Markus, leaving no space between them. It’s a dizzying kiss, growing fervent, Connor is scared to stop, afraid that when he does the spell will break and this morning of love and light will shatter at his fingertips.

He doesn't want this feeling to stop, for the darkness and all its friends to return. He kisses Markus like it will stop the inevitable fall like it can unravel time, send them back to their first kiss, which took place in this very spot. That kiss ignited a love so pure that it appeared fate had foretold of it, that their creation and meeting was connected by something otherworldly. It was a kiss that sparked a love so strong that it would never falter, never break with time. Connor loves Markus more than he ever thought possible, this man has shaped him in so many ways, has saved his life and loved him even when Connor couldn't return that love.

He loves Markus irrevocably and unconditionally, but it's not enough to stop the fear from returning, not enough to prevent the unwanted memories from rising without warning, violent and devastating. The studio is ripped away, reality shifting as it collapses around him. Connor had no hope of holding on, had no chance against the panic attack that overcomes him, capsizing him in place and time so very far away. Warmth and sunshine vanish, replaced by the cold light of a grey sky, Markus's soft touch is gone, exchanged for calloused hands that bruise and bind.

Reed is hovering over him, eyes gleaming with twisted desire, lips pulled into a devilish smile. Connor struggles, bucking and thrashing beneath Reed's body, fighting wildly to escape. He kicks and screams, cries shredding his throat until his voice is nothing but static. Reed is unmovable, an impossible weight holding him in place. Connor closes his eyes, tears trickling down his cheeks, endure, endure it will be over. Breathe, don't cry, it will be over soon.

Hold on, hold on, hold on.

“Connor, Connor, look at me, it’s okay.”

Connor shudders, eyes snapping open as he slams back into his body, head spinning and nausea rising in the back of his throat. He’s not in that God-forsaken SUV; Reed isn’t here, he never was. He is safe. He is home. He spreads his hands flat over the cold concrete floor, fingers feeling speckles of wet paint, sensitive fingertips picking up ever nick and crack, feeling dust and grit. Slowly, he brings his hands to Markus, seeking the warmth of his skin, the softness of his clothes.

Real, Markus is real. Is looking at him with worry and guilt, hands outstretched but not touching, hesitant, afraid to cause another panic attack. Connor reaches for those strong hands, trembling fingers smoothing over the skin, tracing over knuckles and artificial veins. He got so lost, was taken so very away. He can’t stop the tears, the broken sob that tears from his throat, shatters the brightness of the day. Markus catches him as he falls forward, cradling him in arms as Connor cries, clinging to him as he breaks and unravels.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs, voice thick with static, “I got lost, I got so lost.”

“It’s not your fault, my love,” Markus reassured, rearranging Connor, so he was nestled in the V of his legs, surrounded by his embrace. “You’re safe now. He can’t hurt you.”

“But he does,” Connor looks up at Markus, pleading for him to understand, “I see him at court, and I feel his hands on me, I feel him _inside_ me.” The words are ugly and sharp to speak, leave Markus looking ill and furious. “I am so scared of him Markus. I hate that I am, I keep trying to live my life, to move on, but he has invaded every inch of me. He is a poison I can’t get out; a monster I can’t outrun no matter how far I go.”

“You can’t outrun what happened to you, love,” Markus explained solemnly, “it’s not ever going to go away, but you have come so far. You are moving on with your life even if you don’t always feel like you are.” He opened a connection, images flickering in his head, showing the days and moments he proved to Markus, to everyone, just how strong he was. From Markus’s perspective he’d truly come a long way, he’d crossed valleys and mountaintops, walked through the fire and the smoke just to be here, in Markus’s arms. “See?”

Connor can see the recovery he's made, the steps taken, and battles faced. He is not the android who fell apart in the aftermath of the assault, but he's not the android he used to be either. He's almost Connor, will never truly be that version of himself again, though. He'd been so many Connor's in his short life. Had been created as the perfect weapon, forced out into the world as a hunter of his own kind, was no more than a puppet for CyberLife, just a series of codes and hardware given a face and a name.

Markus set him free, reached passed firewalls and fears, plucking out a soul, a life desperate to live. A new Connor emerged, guilt-ridden and willing to do anything for his people, for Markus. RK800 truly became Connor in that moment, a living, breathing, dreaming being. Deviant hunter turned deviant than became human, a son, a friend, a partner. Connor blossomed to life, came into existence in the rusty, dank ruins of a sinking ship. He learnt and felt so many things those following ten months.

Fell in love. 

Broke _apart._

Connor sends these clashing feelings through the connection. Showing the rise and fall of the android, he'd become. He shows the climb, the spiral, reveals the fears. Shares snippets of nightmares that twist and warp with memories, creating new fears. He lets Markus see the monster Reed is, feels wrong and sickened doing so, but he needs Markus to understand. Reed is the monster in the dark, in the shadows. The monster that won't leave his head. Markus inhales a shaky breath, gripping Connor tight, swaying gently, the calming effect has Connor sagging, tears drying. He wipes the dampness from his cheeks with the sleeve of his sweater.

"You didn't deserve any of that Connor," Markus whispers, words ghosting over his skin and circling LED. "You did everything you could; it wasn't your fault. Reed hurt you, he violated you, and he enjoyed it." There is a glint of anger to Markus's words, it's dangerous and hints towards a rage that could bring cities down in dust and force mankind to their knees, there is a darkness inside Markus that he never gives into. It's the same darkness that swirled within him, a pre-programmed drive to kill, to complete the mission no matter the cost. Connor could have become a cold; mindless machine had he walked a different path, had Hank not fostered the goodness in him. "You have every right to be afraid of him, Connor."

Markus grew silent, Connor peered up into his eyes, could see the wheels turning, searching for the right words to say. "He might be monstrous, but he's not a monster." He settled on, meeting Connor's glistening eyes. "I see an angry, twisted man who just wanted to cause pain."

"I felt like I was just a toy to him," Connor revealed, word spoken through gritted teeth, a flicker of anger sparking in his wires, "a machine that wouldn't be affected by what he did."

"You're not though; you are alive, you feel pain and Reed liked that." His words twist into a thousand knots in Connor’s abdomen. "Reed decided in that moment to rape you because it would hurt you. Hank thought it was premeditated and I think to some extent it was, but what you said, that was confirmation that it would cause you physical pain and that's what Reed wanted."

"So, it's my fault?” He asked, feels the tremors start, the itch of hysteria. He’s been down this road before, has circled and circled this thought to the point of madness. He’s forgiven himself though, left the guilt and the shame in the hollow world of nightmares. Logically he knows Markus is not blaming him, would never, it’s an uncontrollable reaction, words ripped from his tongue before he can swallow them back down.

"No. God, no! Connor, you said that in hopes it would stop Reed." Markus's arms tightened around Connor, a silent reassurance. "We thought he viewed you as nothing more than a machine, but he doesn't. We were wrong. He lied to you, manipulated you. Every word was chosen to isolate you, to make you blame yourself. Reed is vile and cruel. I won't rest until he is punished." Markus shakes the rage, the darkness away, loving gaze settling over Connor. "None of this is making you feel any better," he sighs, guilt flickering in his eyes, "I'm sorry my love."

"N… no, not really," he stammered, voice thick with static. "I don't understand why he wanted to hurt me. I need to understand Markus."

"Humans do cruel things, Connor, sometimes there is no reason, or sometimes there are many," he explained calmly, stroking Connor's hair, trying to sooth the panic before it could overtake once more, "but none of it excuses what he did."

Rape is about power, control, that’s what Hank said, that’s whatever everyone says. Reed relished in the pain he caused. The tears, the cries of agony spurring him on, making each bruising touch and thrust that much more painful. He set out to destroy a life, told lies and twisted everything around so Connor would blame himself. Would be too ashamed to tell someone, to reach out for help and it nearly worked. The dirty words, the twisted lies made Connor believe it was his fault, that Reed believed him to be a machine, a plaything when in truth the reveal that he felt pain was what made him snap. He could _hurt_ Connor, could fulfil a sick fantasy and get away with it too.

“I pleaded, and I begged for him to stop,” Connor lurches to his feet, the urge to pace, to move and shake the restless feeling from his limbs overtaking him, “but he wouldn’t stop.” There is a rage pulsating hot through Connor’s wires, curling fingers into tight fists, constricting around his lungs. “I didn’t want it, I didn’t ask for it.” He’s trembling, the anger that has trickled through in the past, arising in brief bursts of rage, staying only moments, has awoken.

A deadly storm that has been waiting for months to be unleashed.

“I know, love,” Markus rises, “you’re angry,” he takes a tentative step closer, “you’re allowed to be angry.”

Markus words tip him over the edge, there is something powerful in being granted the permission to be angry, to be given the right to feel this burning rage. For so long all he’s felt is sorrow and fear, guilt and shame. The anger is so profound that it terrifies him. He screams, wants to smash and destroy something, to let the rage consume, let it be all he can feel. It’s so vastly different to fear and sorrow, turns the memories red, removes all sense of guilt and shame and churns out a deep hatred for Reed. He’s spent so long hating himself, _blaming himself_ , that he never put the blame where it should be.

On Reed, who did a monstrous thing.

“I hate him,” the words rip from his tongue, loaded and explosive in the crisp air, cutting strings and sending him to the ground in a mess of limbs and embers of misery. “I hate what he did to me,” Connor looks up at Markus, who is sinking to the floor in front of him, close enough that their knees brush, “I hate what he did to us.”

“I hate him too,” Markus admitted, fingertips resting ever so softly against Connor’s knee, “and we are entitled too, but we can’t let the anger win any more than we can the sorrow or the fear.” The hand moves from Connor’s knee to his face, smooth, warm thumb chasing away a stray tear. “You never have to forgive Reed for hurting you but holding onto anger is like holding onto hot coal. It will continue to burn you.”

Connor doesn't want this rage to become his life, it's understandable and acceptable, but Markus is right. Holding onto it gives Reed power, it doesn't dismantle the terrifying image of him as a monster. Anger will not set him free, it will only keep him in the dark. It's not going to last regardless, the fear of Reed overpowers the rage, it turns cold in his wires, the outpour of emotions leaving him exhausted, slipping into a state of numbness. The bright morning is long gone, snatched away by memories and ever-churning emotions.

"He took so much from me, Markus," Connor brings his knees to his chest, arms circling around them. "He enjoyed taking it from me," he frowns, bits his lip to keep back the tears that have been shed far too much for one lifetime, "it was a game, and he won."

“He hasn’t won Connor,” Markus confirmed, voice leaving no room for doubt, “he’s not going to win. I can’t imagine the pain you are in, or what it was like, but you have proven time and time again that you are strong enough to make it through this.” He takes Connor’s hand, rubbing warmth into the cold sink.

“I won’t be the same though,” he echoed, remembers speaking these words all those months ago.

"You'll still be Connor, though" Markus repeats, lips twitching into a small smile, "the man I love."

Connor lowers the towering walls, physical barricade dropping, allowing Markus to lean forward and embrace him in a tight hug. Emotionally wrecked from the surge of anger, shaken from spiralling into the past, Connor deflates, systems slowing down, seeking a reprieve. All thoughts have come to an end, numbness wrapping around him, an almost welcome relief compared to the terrifying rage and paralysing fear. What just transpired hasn't gotten him anywhere, he feels adrift, wants to shut down awhile, let his mind rest, so he doesn't have to feel the numbness or replay the revelation that Reed raped him because he was alive and able to feel pain.

He doesn’t want to think, to _feel_ any more right now, he's reached his limit, lost his grip on what should have been a bright, carefree day. There has been an overload of data, far too many emotions to process and categorise. He wishes he could wind back the clock, to the perfect moment when he felt brave enough to kiss Markus, wished he stopped before the trigger slammed into him with the force of a hurricane. Time is not his to bend, wishes seldom come true and the bright morning has been ripped away by his own hands. He was foolish to think he could keep the darkness at bay, could kiss Markus without the memories reaching out from the dark, dragging him back to that God-forsaken day.

He should have known better, but he hoped, he believed at that moment all was well, that he could kiss the man he loved free of consequences. Frustrated, Connor jumps to his feet, storming out of the studio, pulled by an invisible that is demanding he be anywhere but near Markus. It's not his fault, he's done nothing wrong, and yet Connor can't find it in himself to stay. He needs to breathe, to stretch the anxiety from his bones.

The house is empty, silent without the others to fill it with life and sound. Connor doesn't know which way to turn, doesn't quite feel at ease here yet. He realises in this moment that he wants his old room, cramped and cosy, always slightly colder than the rest of the house. He misses Sumo, misses Hank, even though he only saw them two nights ago. He could leave, could call a taxi and go home, let himself in with the key Hank gave to him a month after moving in.

Leaving Jericho, venturing out into the world of humans, was a daunting task. This big, old, creaking house was safe, wrapped around him like protective arms and he let it guide him upstairs, to the room he shared with Markus. He curls up on the bed, hidden beneath the covers, fighting back tears and a cry of frustration. He’s too exhausted to focus on the recovery he’s made, to cherish the fact he kissed Markus for two-minutes and twenty-seven seconds without panicking.

The hurricane has carried him to a place of darkness and despair, the fear and sorrow eclipsing the bright, better days he’s experienced. Darkness and all its friends have swept in, Connor surrenders to it, sinking down, down, down into his cold, quiet depths. But there is a voice, a whisper that is barely heard, that promises the light will return. He just needs to rest awhile, escape awhile, it will be alright. He is safe and sound in this home, the light is not gone, it’s just a bad moment, just a bump in the road, there have been many, and each has been overcome.

He slips into a dreamless state, letting go of fear, sorrow, rage and guilt.

He falls down, down, down, but he will rise again.

*******

Connor wakes to the last strands of daylight dancing across his face, audio switching back online to hear the end of birdsong. Wires tugging and systems bursting back to life, Connor shifts into a sitting position, exhaling the last tendrils of darkness. The panic and rage from earlier have been swept away, sleep allowing him to process the rapid thoughts and surge of overwhelming emotions. He doesn’t feel as light-hearted as he did this morning or as bold as did when kissing Markus, but he feels better.

Can see and _feel_ light and hope again.

Can close his eyes and remember the feel of Markus's lips, warm and soft, against his own without a hint or twitch of panic. Two minutes and twenty-seven seconds of heaven, of bliss, is something to be proud of, he can see that now. The jumbled thoughts and emotions that crashed through him have untangled, leaving him able to separate the events. The kiss was lovely, _magical,_ the memory brings a tingle to his lips, fingertips tracing over them as they quirk into a content smile.

What followed shouldn’t overshadow the joy, the strength and excitement he felt when kissing Markus. Triggers are normal; he needs to listen to his body in the future, ease away before the memories can drag him unwillingly back to the past. Next time he’d known better, next time he’d listen to the sirens and heed the warnings. Markus would never fault him for pulling away, for ending the kiss as abruptly as it started.

Next time, there would be a next time, and maybe that kiss would last for two minutes and twenty-eight seconds.

And one day, in the far-off future, when spring was in full bloom or perhaps in the blistering heat of summer, Connor would do more than kiss Markus. That was a long way off; there were still rivers and roads to go before Connor could even feel comfortable being naked in front of Markus, let alone being intimate with him. The day would come. Markus would wait patiently, would shower him with love and affection in every other way, until then.

Connor shakes the thoughts away; he’s not sure what stirred them into the light, though deviancy has taught him that thoughts and feelings float in and out of existence as much as they wish. Like the anger, the hatred for he’d felt for Reed. He never knew rage could feel so powerful, could surge and spark under his skin like a deadly storm. Deviancy had been frustrating and terrifying, life had evoked all kinds of feelings, but anger was foreign to Connor. Anger belonged to another version of himself, the one who’d hunted deviants, who despite being a machine, was so afraid of dying it drove him to despise his own kind.

Connor had no room for anger after the uprising, guilt and regret took up every corner of his mind until Markus and Hank chipped it away. After that he was far too busy falling in love to feel angry, the sunshine, butterflies in his stomach feeling, took centre stage, followed by desire, burning and curious. There was an eagerness and excitement to learn what pleasure felt like, to explore Markus's skin and pull breathy moans from his throat. Reed took so much happiness, so much light and love from his life. Stole a fundamentally important piece of the person he'd grown into and shattered it apart, so Connor could never be whole again.

He’d never be _that_ Connor again.

But he’d be somebody else, someone who’d been through hell and lived to tell the tale.

Trembling fingers tangle in messy hair, tugging at the silky strands in frustration. He breathes the swell of anger from his lungs, blinks burning tears from cried-out eyes. He is both angry and frightened of Reed, and this fear has bought him to a sudden halt. He stuck here, far from where he was but not close enough to where he needs to be. He doesn't know how to fix this, how to dismantle the thoughts and sever the strings so that he can heal. Even with all the fancy, state-of-the-art programming Connor can't find a way out, can't see the path leading him from this pain.

He doesn’t have the answers, but the strawberry blonde android standing in the doorway might be of some help. North strides into the room, crawling onto the foot of the bed, draping the weighted blanket over her lap. She smiles at Connor, the last rays of sunlight bathing her face in a golden glow. Connor returns the smile, reaching out to switch on the lamp just as the sun sinks below the horizon, another cold night descending over the city.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?” North enquired.

Markus must have called her after he stormed off. Connor feels a pang of guilt; he never intended to make Markus worry, hopes he’s not blaming himself for what transpired earlier. It wasn’t his fault; he did nothing wrong, Connor just needed space, to be alone with the misery. He would go to Markus after speaking with North, make sure he was okay, that he knew Connor wasn’t angry with him, or worse, afraid of him. There is an uncomfortable feeling in his gut at the thought of Markus thinking he’d caused Connor’s panic; the trigger had been set off by own his doing, he’d make sure Markus knew that.

At this moment, Connor holds his hand out in a silent invitation to North, her slender fingers wrap around his wrist, skin peeling away to open the connection, the events of the day trickling through. He starts at the beginning, sharing the bright, glittery morning filled with contentment and happiness, followed by painting, the kiss, sweet and lovely and amazing until suddenly it wasn't. The spiral into panic crashes through, the restless pacing and burst of rage leaving him in a physical pull. It hurts in the strangest way, aches in his chest and turns in his stomach.

Once he is finished, sharing the last moments before he fell asleep, he lets go, letting out a shaky breath. North leans forward, embracing him a hug, he holds her tight, face buried in her neck, can smell coconut and shea butter in her hair. North never smells the same; she is always changing shampoos and perfumes, exploring all the things she was never allowed to before. Underneath it though, is the faint smell that is her, a sweet yet spicy aroma that suits her perfectly.

“A bit of a roller-coaster then, huh?” North’s leans back, lips forming a sympathetic smile.

“Feels more like a carousel at times,” he revealed, sighing wearily, “like I am stuck on a never-ending loop and every time I think it’s stopped it starts up again.”

“That ride never stops Connor,” she admits solemnly, “but it slows down. Some days it doesn’t feel like it’s moving at all.”

Connor's hand drops to his thigh, he exhales loudly, flopping back against the mound of pillows, staring at the ceiling like it holds all the answers to the universe and the key to stopping this maddening ride. North crawls towards him, lying down next to him, green eyes meeting brown ones. North changes her eye colour more frequently then she does shampoo, but no matter if they are green or blue or brown there is always love and understanding glistening in their depths.

“What would you say to Reed, if you could?”

Connor is surprised by the question, mind glitching, codes and software freezing, sending off alarms and warnings. Quickly he silences the screeching, chasing away the flashing red signs that had appeared over North's face. He swallows thickly, a very human trait that he isn't sure he learnt from Hank or had pre-programmed into him. Either way, he feels the need to dislodge the invisible lump from his throat and inhale air into gasoline-soaked lungs. Fear always makes his chest burn, throat ache like he's drank poisoned thirium.

He stares at North for one minute and forty-five seconds, tries to find a single word to say, even a sound, but for the life of him, he can't. He doesn't know what he'd say to Reed if he could. Isn't sure he'd like to say anything to Reed, that he has _anything_ to say to Reed. If he could, if he wasn't consumed by fear, what would he say to the man who raped him? Would he ask why? Would Reed give him an answer, the truth instead of the fabricated lies, the twisted story that spins the tale that he was unaware of what he was doing and truly believed Connor consented.

“I don’t know,” he finally says, eyes closing against the fresh sting of tears, “what would you say to the men who hurt you?”

"I have a lot of things I'd like to say to them," North replied, Connor, opened his eyes to see the parade of emotions flickering across her face. "I'd tell them that what they did hurt me. That it's left me afraid and traumatised and untrusting of humans. I'd tell them that I watched my friends die at their hands, that I feared I'd be next, that I was scared and begging for them to stop, but the words were silenced by my programming. I'd make them understand that what they did was wrong, that they are cruel and deserve to be punished for killing my friends, my sisters."

North draws in a shaky breath, tears tracing patterns down her face. Connor has never seen her cry before. “Then I’d tell them I am not afraid anymore of them anymore, that I am alive, and I am going to live and love and learn to trust again.” A fragile smile graces her face, the courageous woman he knows reappearing, she is a burning, bright light against the dark. “I’m going to tell them that, I am going to tell the world my story.”

Connor admires her strength, is in awe of her, she has changed so much from the bitter, angry and cold woman he met in the ruins of the sinking ship. He wonders if he’d ever feel ready to share his story with the world. Twisted versions are circling the media, Reed’s account of events has been put in print. Connor’s side of the story, the truth, has only been revealed in the smallest of details. He could speak up, set the record straight, but he’s truly not ready to share this pain with strangers.

He needs more time, needs to hold onto hope and keep it together, needs to make it through this hellish trial, then he might be strong enough to reach out to Mia Jones. Time, he needs more time to heal, but in order to do so he must face the fear, face the monster that haunts his dreams and follows him back into the waking world. He must regain a sense of control, confront the fear and most importantly be brave.

Be so very brave.

**XxX**

Night falls over New Jericho, Markus barely notices the sun disappear from the sky, too focused on the haunting image coming to life at his fingertips. There is a slight tremor to his hand, an uncertainty sticking to his codes, making him pause mid-stroke, question if this is the right thing to do. The overwhelming urge to pluck the memory free and turn into something tangible overrides the confliction. He'll paint the horror, set the memory of the endless road and blood red SUV, free.

He has been haunted by this dark, hopeless world long enough; it's lingered in the back of his mind, sneaking out to disturb his dreams, to twist and turn them into nightmares. Markus will give it life just so he can destroy it. It's a destructive act, won't fix anything, but there is a release to be found in setting ablaze a memory that has caused a great deal of pain. It's something he's done often, finds it therapeutic, even if Simon finds it concerning. Sometimes he needs to let the anger take control, to be savage and violent and all the things he'd never allow himself to be.

Approaching footsteps bring his attention back to the dimly lit studio, Connor stands in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the warm glow of the living room. He steps into the light, lips curving into a soft smile, there is light shining once more in his eyes. The tension zaps from Markus's shoulders, relief flooding his system as Connor closes the space between them. His brow furrows as dark eyes flicker over the painting, smile slipping from his face.

He hadn't intended for Connor to see this, shouldn't have painted it in the first place, has an apology and an explanation on his tongue ready to go when Connor takes the brush from him. And he starts painting, adding the final touches to the night sky and the SUV, hand trembling as the brush glides over the canvas. Stepping back, Connor passes the brush back to Markus, tucking quivering, paint-speckled hands deep into the pockets of the DPD issued sweater.

“Now we burn it right?” Connor glances his way, lips struggling to form a fragile smile.

He’s told Connor about the paintings he’s burnt, was surprised when Connor understood the benefits of it, but that was Connor, always surprising him, always understanding. “Now we burn it,” he scanned the room, locating the box of matches among the clutter on the shelves.

They step into the bitterly cold night, walking towards the firepit that's seen gatherings, heard an array of songs and burnt many paintings. Markus balances the canvas on the logs, wet paint gleaming in the moonlight, delicate snowflakes landing like stars on the inky black sky. It looks hauntingly beautiful like this, hung in an art gallery; this picture would evoke a sense of fear and foreboding, but without context, no one would ever know it held such painful memories. No one knows it reflects reality, that Connor was raped in that damn truck. He knows. Will never forget the horrors that unfolded in that hellish world, will always remember that it mirrored the day Connor was raped.

Could never forget he never actually saved Connor from Reed.

“Markus?” Connor quiet, concerned voice cuts into the churning thoughts.

Exhaling an unsteady breath, he releases the guilt, letting the brisk breeze carry it away.  He strikes the match, flame flickering, struggling to stay burning, he offers it to Connor, he deserves to do the honour. He takes the match, orange glow lighting up his face, jaw set in determination, Connor lets the match fall from his fingers, it lands on the red SUV, and Markus knows that exactly where Connor intended for it to land. The chemicals of the paint feed the flame, setting ablaze to the hollow, tormenting world. As the flames lick hungrily at the night air, Markus reaches out in the dark, fingers closing around Connor's trembling ones.

“Feel any better?” Connor asked, eyes never leaving the painting, which is shrivelling away, burning to ash and ruin.

“A little,” he confessed, “you?”

“Some.” The fire dies out, leaving a smouldering mess, a toxic smell lingers in the air. “I did feel a sense of satisfaction, but in truth, it’s an empty gesture. Nothing’s changed.” He frowns slightly, LED spinning yellow. “Then again, I destroyed that Godforsaken place for real, there isn’t even a strand left of it in my coding. It was just a world of delusion, an imaginary place for my demons to hide and my guilt, _shame_ to fester." He looks off into the distance, stares straight through the smoke to somewhere faraway place. "As awful as it was, I don't think I'd be the same if I hadn't faced it." The frown deepens, LED glowing red for the briefest of moments. "It helped me heal, my inner self gave me permission to let go of the guilt and shame," he looked back to Markus, LED now a calm, blue, ", and if I hadn't had that conversation, I don't think I would have come this far." 

"Sometimes in order to move forward we have to forgive ourselves," Markus says, voice faint in the night, remembering the countless times he's had to forgive himself for his mistakes. Guilt never leaves quietly or easily, it digs in deep, growing, poisoning everything its fingers touch. Guilt, regret, they are old friends to Markus, but for his people's sake, for his own, he has learnt how to forgive himself. It's a slow process, but he finds release in setting fire to his creations, painting these dark, all-consuming emotions is how Carl taught him to heal.

“Sometimes we have to face our fears.” Connor’s soft words draw Markus back to the night.

“That we do,” Markus confirms, squeezing Connor’s fingers. “Come on, it’s freezing out here, let’s go back inside.” Connor nods, following him back into the warmth of the studio. He has grown quiet, expression thoughtful. “Are you sure you’re alright, my love?”

“I’m fine, apart from being tired and cold,” he reassured, lips flicking into a small smile.

"Why don't you go have a hot shower while I clean up?" he suggested, though he sees right through the thin smile, he knows well enough by now to leave Connor be. He'll open up when he is ready, it's been an emotional day for him, for both of them.

“If you insist,” he replied, static creeping into his voice from fatigue.

“I’ll be up shortly,” he kissed Connor’s cheek, gently shoving him in the direction of the door, “go get warm love.”

Connor gives him one last look, eyes tired but still carrying light, shining despite the trauma of the day. There is no doubt Markus has North to thank for that, he made the right choice in reaching out to her after Connor's panic attack. In truth, he didn't call North just to comfort Connor, he'd felt his own anxiety rising. The memories rose without warning, he stared at the empty space where Connor had just stood, but he didn't see the studio, he saw the road stretching out into infinity and the SUV glinting under a street light.

He'll never forget that frightening place, it haunts him as much as the junkyard does. Sometimes the places twist together, the road covered in writhing, broken android bodies, the SUV parked atop them, Connor's pleas mangling with the cries of the damned. He was reaching for the canvas within seconds, a sudden need to purge the memory from his head, his _heart_ making him act without thought. It took him hours to paint, he became lost in it, in the memories. He barely registered North’s arrival. Connor would be better with her comfort, Markus needed to steady himself, needed to remove these messy, dark thoughts from his head.

Painting the image, burning it, has quietened the thoughts, soothed something within his soul. He’s burnt enough paintings, _memories_ , to know doing so helps, he also knows that it doesn't eradicate the pain or fear. After all, he still has nightmares about the junkyard. North calling to him from inside brings him back to the present, he shakes away the last tendrils of darkness, switches off the light and steps into the golden glow of inside. He smells of paint and smoke, is exhausted, shivering, cold seeping in, right down to the bone.

He’s going to wash away the day in a hot shower than crawl into bed beside the man he loves.

***

Markus wakes to an empty bed, hand reaching out, searching the cold expense of covers for Connor. There is a spark of panic, it tugs him upright, eyes scanning the moonlit room frantically. The panic holts in his chest, eyes landing on Connor, who sits curled up on the window seat, staring out at the twinkling city lights. He looks troubled, lost, scared, LED flickering yellow and red in the reflection of the glass, spinning madly as Connor's thoughts churned. After this afternoon, it's no wonder he's woken distressed.

Markus untangles himself from the covers, setting socked feet on the hardwood floor when it creaks beneath his weight Connor doesn't stir. Navigating his way through the darkness, each step deliberately heavy as not to frighten Connor, he moves towards the window. "Love?" Markus stops a foot away, waiting for Connor to come back to him.

The LED burns red, circles widely than abruptly turns blue, lashes fluttering as Connor turns towards him with glittering eyes. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said, voice a small, fragile sound in the night. “Did I wake you?”

"No, it's alright, love, I must have sensed you weren't okay, and that's what woke me." Markus closed the distance between them, sitting next to him, leaving a few inches of space between so Connor doesn't feel crowded. "What's on your mind?"

Connor bites his bottom lip, a flash of white sinking into delicate flesh, a nervous habit Markus knows well. “I… I want to see Reed.”

Markus is taken aback; the remaining tendrils of fatigue ripped away by Connor's words. He doesn't quite know what to say, is left staring, unsure of what to say. "Connor… love, are you sure?" he doesn't know where this has come from. Isn't sure it's a good idea. Actually, it sounds like a fucking terrible idea, worse than when Connor volunteered himself for a suicide mission. "I'm not going to stop you," he'd never make demands, never order Connor to do anything, never has. He stands by his words, freedom for all, even when it means supporting the ones you love through a decision like this. "I'm trying to understand why."

“Because I’m afraid of him, because he has so much power over me and maybe, _just maybe_ if I confront him, I won't feel as afraid anymore." He explained, a frantic, pleading edge to his voice. "I will see Reed at court regardless if I do this, but this gives me the chance to say the things I've been unable to say. It gives me the chance to dismantle the image I have of him as some terrifying monster." Connor shakes his head, hand reaching up to tug anxiously at his hair. "I don't really understand it myself, the idea of being alone with him is petrifying, but if I can do this if I can look him in the eye than maybe I can free myself from his hold. You said it yourself, he wanted to hurt me, he wanted to destroy me, and I don't want him thinking that he has. I want him to know that despite what he did to me, I'm still standing."

"Okay," Markus is speechless, the fire burning in Connor is stronger than the flames that devoured the painting earlier that night. He doesn't like the idea of Connor being alone with Reed, knows Hank will hate it, but there is determination in Connor's voice, an unwavering strength coming to life in his eyes. Connor is certain about this, has made up his mind and once Connor commits himself to something he follows through. "Okay," he repeats, not sure what else to say, he'd never dream of making Connor confront Reed, the idea had never occurred to him, but he understands where Connor is coming from. "I'll talk to your attorney and see what we can do."

“Thank you, Markus,” Connor takes his hand, he can see the towering walls drop, knows it’s safe to offer physical comfort. “Are you okay with this?”

"I can't say I'm comfortable with the idea of you being alone in a room with Reed," he admitted, fingers lacing through Connor's, bringing his hand to his mouth to kiss, "but I can see this is important to you, so I won't stand in your way."

A smile graces Connor’s face, frail and fleeting, but it’s always a beautiful sight, especially after a troubling day. “I must be crazy,” he shakes his head, “this is crazy right?”

"I don't think so, love," Markus reassured, "you said it yourself, we have to face our fears." Markus knows this his is more than a fear, this is the man who raped Connor, who's very presence frightened him so profoundly it caused him to have a seizure. This wasn't going to be like learning to be comfortable in the passenger seat of a car or learning to cope with panic attacks. Seeing Reed, speaking to Reed was huge, it was momentous, and Markus isn't sure how well Connor will handle it. But in this late hour, in the light of the moon, he looks determined, looks ready to walk onto the battlefield once more. "This isn't going to be easy for you," he voices his concern, even though he knows Connor is very aware of how difficult this will be, "but I'll be there every step of the way and if you change your mind, that's alright too."

"I need to this," he said, voice full of conviction, body straightening as resolve settled in his bones. "I have faced so many fears already, and each time I come away stronger. Reed is the root of them, the monster I keep running from, and I am tired of running."

“You have been so incredibly brave Connor,” Markus said, pride and warmth swelling in his chest, “and I am so proud of you for facing your fears, for getting up every morning and making it through the day. You have overcome so much, love, survived so much and I am in awe of you.” He reached out, cupping the side of Connor’s face, heart skipping a beat when Connor nuzzled into the touch. “I love you, so much.”

“I love you too,” Connor leant forward, engulfing Markus in a hug, “do you think you’ll come with me to tell Hank?”

Markus laughs softly, grateful that they could still find light even in the darkest times. “Of course. He’s not going to like it, though.”

“I know,” Connor sighed, confidence wavering. “He’ll support me, right?”

He leans back, holding Connor at arm’s length. “He’s your dad,” Markus replied, thankful that Connor had the chance to experience the same kind of affection he’d been shown by Carl. So very grateful to Hank, who took Connor in when he felt he had no place in the world to go. “He’ll always support you,” he leant forward, forehead resting against Connor’s noses brushing and words ghosting over his lips as said, _vowed_ , “and so will I.”

**XxX**

The house feels empty without Connor, the empty room sits waiting for his return, bed made neatly, a few personalised items left lingering. Sumo stares sadly into the dark room at times, whining for Connor's return. Hank pats the old St Bernard on the head, assuring him that Connor will come back. He visits frequently, stays one or two nights a week, but it's not the same as having him here permanently. Hank misses him, misses the chatter in the morning, misses Connor greeting him in the evenings with a hug and stories of what he did during the day. He tells himself Connor will come home in time, but as time goes on, he isn't sure if he will.

Connor is happy at New Jericho, content living with Markus and North, amongst his own people, safe from the humans who have hurt them, who owned them. In time the world will change, androids will be free to live outside the gates of New Jericho, some already do, but for some, it's the only place they feel safe. There would always be a room here for Connor, arms waiting to greet him, this would always be his home. Hank wasn't losing another son, he was watching one grow, find their footing and freedom in this mad world. After everything Connor had been put through, he deserved to carve out his own path, to live without fear in a place he'd be accepted and loved.

When Connor arrived this afternoon with Markus at his side, insisting he take Sumo for a walk, Hank realised just how far he'd come. Connor's anxiety had dwindled, not gone entirely but he seemed happier, calmer. Perhaps it was Markus's doing, he always appeared composed and collected, almost Zen-like, no matter the situation. Hank had seen him rattled, though, had seen the android leader break apart, cry in fear of losing the man he loved. That was the moment Hank realised how deep Markus's love for Connor ran, the very thought of losing him nearly destroyed him, and on that day, Hank knew Markus would never leave, that he and Connor had the kind of love that people could only dream of. It was sweet and powerful, seemed pre-destined, like the stars whispered of their coming long before androids were even a thought in this world, which seemed impossible given they were made by men.

It was so easy to forget they were machines, that they were powered by computer chips and software, made of wire, titanium and biocomponents. They were so very far from flesh and bone, but their emotions, the pain and love they felt were so very human. They were alive, and Hank still doesn’t understand how anyone can say otherwise. The android standing before him, with Bambi eyes and snow in his hair, is his son and the anyone who said otherwise could get fucked. Connor's dusting snow from Sumo's coat, Markus watches, lips quirked into a fond smile.

Hank takes a seat, sipping his coffee as he watches Connor play with Sumo, enjoying the sound of laughter. It's quiet here without Connor; the Android always had questions to ask, something exciting to share. Even on the bad days Connor still brought sound and life to the house, though Hank doesn't miss the echo of crying or screams piercing the night. He’d do it all over again though; he’d never regret bringing home the freshly deviated android, though he wishes he could undo what Gavin did. He’d give anything to change the past, but time cannot be bent or re-written, the only way is forwards. Each day Connor grew stronger, light and curiosity returning to his eyes, the smile to his face. Hank knew Connor would never be the same, none of them would be, this kind of trauma leaves a scar, but it was healing, slowly, painfully, but surely.

Connor pulls up a seat next to him, there is a change to his demeanour, movements stiff, the bright smile shifting to a nervous look. Markus slips into the chair opposite Connor, expression matching. They have something to say, Hank can feel it in his bones, doesn't need to be a damn good detective sense the tension in the air. Finishing his coffee, he sets the sunshine yellow mug down, waiting for Connor or Markus to speak. Connor eventually does, fingers tugging at the sleeves of the soft blue sweater he'd been gifted at Christmas, a habit that Hank knows is linked to anxiety. It makes Hank anxious, wishes he had some more damn coffee to drink just so he could do something with his hands.

“I… I’ve arranged to see Reed.”

Hank wasn't expecting this, he wasn't one-hundred-per cent sure what he was expecting but it sure as hell wasn't this. "Hell no, Connor!" it's fear that tears the words from Hank's mouth, a fatherly reaction to protect his son causing the outburst. Honestly, though, he hates the idea, he isn't sure how Connor arrived at it, looks to Markus like it was his doing, but he can see that it wasn't. Of course, Connor would want to face the man who raped him, of course, he'd be that stupidly brave, he had always been so damn brave. "I don't like this," he lowers his tone, letting reason and understanding sink in, "not one bit, Connor."

“I knew you wouldn’t,” he revealed, voice unwavering as he speaks, “and truth be told, I am terrified off seeing Reed, but I need to do this.”

There is determination that Hank hasn’t seen in months burning in Connor’s eyes, a firm set to his jaw, a reminder of the android who never failed a mission. Hank is still uneasy with this decision, feels ill at the mere thought of Connor being in the same room as Reed, but this is clearly important to him. “I’m coming with you,” he declared, “I am not letting Reed out of my sight while you’re with him.”

"Okay, that's perfectly reasonable," he replied, lips turning upward in a slight smile. "Thank you, dad. I know this must sound crazy, but I promise you I will be alright. I have played out numerous ways this could go, and it has a high probability of helping me to heal."

Hank shakes his head, he trusts Connor's judgement, he wouldn't have come to this decision lightly, and it's evident Connor is apprehensive about this encounter. Which, is normal, is expected given Reed is the bastard who raped him. "It's okay to be scared of him, Connor." He says, wants to make sure Connor knows he is allowed to have these fears, that Hank doesn't think he is any less brave because of them.

"I know, and I'll probably always be afraid of him, to some degree." He explained, tone steady and gentle. "I'm not punishing myself for that or expecting a miraculous recovery by doing this," he looked to Markus, who smiled encouragingly at him, "it's just something I have to do. I can't really explain why," his brow furrows, LED flickering yellow, "I guess the idea came to me when I was talking with North. I realised I view Reed as a monster and I think that gives him more power than he deserves."

"You're taking back your power," understanding unfolds in Hank's mind, settles against his skin.

“Yes, or trying too,” the smile grows a little brighter, the heaviness of the conversation evaporating from the air as sunlight spills into the kitchen. “It’s not going to be a magical fix, but I feel it will be an important part of the healing process.”

“And what about you,” he turns to Markus, curious to know what he thinks of all this.

“I am not comfortable with the idea of Connor being alone with Reed,” Markus replied, words measured and spoken in that elegant, perfectly structured way of his, “but I have been assured he will be restrained and I, **we** will be able to watch over Connor without being in his way.”

“If Reed so much as blinks at you funny I will not hesitate to punch him the face,” Hank declared, “got it?”

“Got it.” Connor echoes. “I will be safe, dad, and as Markus said, he will be restrained and unable to harm me.”

“I still don’t like this,” he confessed, slumping back in the chair as he resigned to this fucked up situation, “but if you feel this could be beneficial to your recovery than I won’t stand in your way.” He takes Connor’s hand, emphasising his words with a reassuring squeeze. “I’ve got your back, son.”

"I'll be alright, dad," Connor confirmed, voice full of conviction.

He sounds so sure, so damn confident and though Hank is terrified, hates this with every fibre in his being, he believes that Connor will be okay, that he's calculated correctly and is making the right choice to assist in his healing. Hank knows that this will help him regain a semblance of control, a sense of power. It's not going to be easy, he will need plenty of support, but he has that. He is surrounded by love, by people who'll fight to protect him and step aside now he is ready to fight for himself once more. God, he is so incredibly brave, Hank can't help but feel pride swell in his chest.

He always believed Connor would make it through this hell, and he has, not without scares or fears, but he’s come so far, has fought so damn hard.

He’s found his way back to better days.

**XxX**

Everyone wants to feel invincible, to believe that nothing in life is able to destroy them. Connor rolled off the assembly line feeling invincible, stepped out into the world thinking himself to be untouchable, unbreakable. Even as a deviant, despite sustaining many injuries, the sense of invincibility never really left him. All it took was an act of violence to shatter that delusion, to remind him of how very breakable he was. He didn't need to be invincible, unbreakable though, not today, he just needed to be brave, to be his own hero. That's what North said to him that Autumn morning all those months ago.

Be your own damn hero.

_Save yourself._

It hadn’t always been possible; there were times when he couldn’t escape the darkness alone, days where Hank or Markus had to encourage him to rise in the morning, remind him to keep fighting. Sometimes he wasn’t strong enough to make it through a panic attack or a bad day without help, nightmares or triggers would leave him a frail paper-thin creature who could blow away in the slightest breeze. Those days and moments were when his loved ones stepped in, plucking him from the dark seas and guiding him back to the light. He’d been swimming long enough; it was time to face his fears, slay the monster who hurt him, who tried to break him.

Today he’s choosing to pick up the pieces, collect his courage and step out onto the battlefield once more. Brave, a hero, invincible for a few precious moments. Of course, all the courage in the world won’t be enough to remove the anxiety completely. He’s afraid, is terrified, behind this door, just of sight, is the man who raped him. No one could walk into this room free of fear; it’s not going to stop him though. Connor is going to break the hold Reed has on him, is going to be brave no matter how frightened he is.

Behind this door, caged in this steel box is the monster from his dreams. In reality, he is just a man, he may be wicked and heartless, cruel and malicious, but is only human, breakable, just like Connor was. He doesn't want to break Reed, to hurt him the way Hank did, he just wants to talk. Doesn't want or need to ask questions, he'd never get answers to them anyway. Reed has told a thousand lies, painted a scenario that never took place, made people believe that Connor consented.

Reed is lying to save himself, it's human nature, and Connor doesn't think it'll be enough to keep him out of jail. Reed is desperate, this case is stacked in Connor's favour, and he understands now that Reed knows he's guilty. The thing is, he doesn't care. He never cared, that's why he raped him, that's why he bullied him for months, hoping to chip away at Connor's confidence, tear him down until there was nothing left. At the start, Connor had too much self-assured programming lingering for Reed's words to take effect and the remarks were of little importance compared to the guilt he felt over hunting his own kind.

Reed failed to break Connor with his taunts and shoves, anger growing and twisting, unleashing in the worst possible way. He tried to destroy Connor, but he failed. He shattered his life, tore it down and left it in ruins, but ever so slowly Connor rebuilt, sticking himself together again. He wanted to show Reed that, to take the smug smirk from his face and make him realise that he didn’t win. He’d never win. Reed could tell his lies, throw his stones, but Connor would fight back.

He’d carry on.

Casting Hank and Markus one last glance, offering them a fragile smile of reassurance, he pressed his hand against the palm reader, the door sliding open to reveal a grey, cold, steel room. It wasn't easy crossing the threshold, Connor swore his heart and thirium pump would escape his chest, escape before he could complete this mission. He'd failed a lot of missions in his time, conflicting programming causing him to spare deviants. As deviant the mission still mattered, only it matters so much more when he knew what he was fighting for. Markus, his people, their future, their rights.

Today he was fighting for himself; this mission was his and his alone.

Exhaling, straitening his posture, he stepped into the room with one confident stride, trying not to wince as the door closed behind him. He was alone with the man who hurt him so intimately, so violently and yet under the ugly fluorescent light, stripped of his leather jacket and trademark smirk, Reed looked nothing like the man who'd raped him. There is no smugness on his face, no malicious glint in his eyes, he shifts awkwardly under Connor's gaze, anger flickering in his eyes, fingers curling into fists.

There is a hint of the man who attacked him, Connor’s stress levels spike as Reed’s gaze sweeps over him, predatory, _hungry_. It’s a rapid shift; it’s his true colours shining through, Reed is dangerous, will always be dangerous, but shackled to the table, cuffs painfully tight, he is unable to move, to lash out. Behind the two-way mirror Hank and Markus are watching, at the ready should anything happen. Connor is safe to approach, he does so cautiously, eyes never leaving Reed’s face for a second.

The expression shifts again, a burst of confusion that is quickly swept away by a blank stare, Reed regards Connor like he nothing, a machine that is meant to obey. It stirs wake fear, makes wires pull and twinge, body begging to be anywhere but here, in the line of sight of the man who hurt it so badly. Connor needs to this, needs to confront Reed, show him that he failed, he may have hurt him, has fundamentally changed him, but he is still breathing, healing and nothing will stop him from living.

Connor pulls up a seat, hands shaking so badly he folds them on his lap out of sight. He’s refusing to let Reed see that he is afraid, won’t give him the satisfaction, not again.

"What the hell are you doin' here plastic?" Reed demanded, sounding bored, annoyed like Connor was interrupting his day. "You coming back for more?" he winks, lips tugging into a twisted smile.

“I wanted to see you,” Connor keeps his tone steady, even though his skin crawls at the change in Reed’s tone, shivering in repulsion, fear.

“Why? I’ve got nothing to say to you.” He tugs at the cuffs, brow furrowing angrily. “So, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not waste my time some plastic whore like you.”

Connor’s jaw clenches at the comment, Reed is still trying to tear him down, to put words in his head, but he won’t believe the lies, not this time. “Well I’ve got something to say to you,” he declared, “and there’s no point in belittling me, you can say whatever you want, but you and I know the truth. I never consented, you didn’t want me to.” The words rise, painful and powerful. “You wanted to hurt me.”

Reed tears his gaze away; he is guilty, his truth laid out in the open for everyone to hear. Dark, cold eyes snap back, teeth beard in an angry snarl. "So, what? You think I care?" he shrugged, laughing, it's a sharp, ugly sound. "You think I'm going to say something stupid or ask for your forgiveness? You're a machine Connor, a shitty one at that, but all you are is ones and zeroes, and I'll be dammed if I'm going to jail for fucking you."

"I am alive," he says, voice unwavering, "I felt everything you did to me!" He still feels the things Reed did to him, but he doesn't want him to know that. Despite the act, Reed is well aware of how alive Connor is. He's smart enough to keep up the façade, maintain the lie. Connor could push, could sit here for hours, hell years, interrogating him, wear Reed down until the truth finally spilt from his poisonous tongue, but he has given enough of his life to this horrible human being.

"You know what you did to me was wrong." Connor contended, leaving no room for interruptions. "I asked you to stop, I begged you to stop, but you wouldn't." Connor lets out a shaky breath, lashes fluttering to chase away the tears. "I didn't want it, but you held me down, and you raped me." Anger flares in his wires, burning bright alongside the spark of courage. "I've been afraid of you for so long; I built you up in my head as a monster, you're not though-" He met Reed's eyes, chest swelling with flames "-you're just someone who enjoys hurting others. I'm not going to let you hurt anyone else Reed, and I'm not going to let you have any more power over me." He gets to his feet, rising with strength and grace. "I'm not afraid of you anymore." His voice stays steady, gaze never wavering from Reed's wide-eyed stare. "You don't get to win this time."

Connor turns on his heel, walking towards the door, hand surprisingly steady as he places it on the palm reader. He steps outside into the hallway, falls into Markus’s loving arms. He feels strong, feels different in a way he can’t quite yet explain. There will be time to process later, tremors have taken over his body, a delayed reaction to facing the man who hurt him so profoundly. He would very much like to go home now, to be far away from this cold, steel prison.

"You did it, love,” Markus whispers in his ear, lips ever so gently pressing a kiss against the shell.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he replied, turning to face Hank without breaking the embrace, “either of you.”

“I’ll always be here for you, Connor,” Hank said, patting his back comfortingly, “I’m proud of you, son.”

Connor releases Markus, stepping into his dads waiting arms. “Thank you for letting me do this.”

Hank steps back, holding Connor at arm’s length. “I hated you being in that room with Reed, but I understand that you needed to this and I’d never stop you from doing something that is important for your recovery. I trust the choices you make, Connor.” He smiles proudly down at him. “Now let’s get you home.”

Connor lets Hank led him out, back into the light of day. He steps outside and feels the shift, feels strength course through his veins, the image of Reed as a monster shattering to pieces. Reed is not a monster, that image that delusion gave him far more power than he deserved. He's no more than a bitter, vile, twisted man and Connor isn't afraid of him anymore. Reed didn't destroy him, he tried to, he wanted too, but Connor endured and _survived_ , lived through every agonising moment.

Reed is not a monster, he a is cruel and vicious man, will never be sorry for what he did, the trauma that he caused isn’t going to completely heal in this single moment, but it’s another string severed, another step in the right direction. Reed isn’t going to win, isn’t going to control Connor for the rest of his life. He’s setting himself free once more, is fulfilling a promise made. Connor steps back into the light, stronger than before. This painful chapter of his life is drawing to a close, a new beginning crests on the horizon. He’ll never be the Connor he once was, no one has escaped this unscathed, but he will embrace the future, even with all its uncertainties, and learn to live again.

Today, he begins again, and if he stumbles, if he falls, he will get back up.

Will rise, rise, _rise_ until he doesn’t have to anymore

**XxX**

On February the fifth, at one-fifteen in the afternoon, on a cool, crisp day, Reed is sentenced to five years in prison. Connor was overwhelmed with emotions; they crashed through him, wave after wave rolling through until one stood out. Relief. Relief so power it almost knocked him to his knees. He would have fallen to the ground had he'd not be held in Markus's loving arms. Relief spread through him, was palpable in the air, evident on his loved one's faces. Later that day, when he was home, sitting in the living room, surrounded by family, friends and fellow survivors he felt a shift, felt something he'd been seeking for so very long.

He felt closure.

That day was an ending, and a new beginning, it was time to start living again, truly living, and so he did. Not all at once, not so easily, but over many weeks he built, and he broke, he pushed and rose and came out stronger each time. Three weeks after Reed was sentenced, he got a job volunteering at a local animal shelter, four days later and North had adopted a Bengal kitten, and he and Markus were now the proud dads of a young English sheepdog named Hope.

Two and half months later, after weeks of therapy and months of group, Connor returned to the DPD. He didn't want a big deal made of it, but when he arrived Monday morning, his desk was covered in cards and flowers, giant balloons proclaiming, ‘welcome back' tied to the desk chair. The small celebration was a much-needed distraction from the first day back, the night before he'd been restless with anxiety, worried about being treated differently or finding himself unable to walk passed Reed's desk. Connor made it through the day, and the day after that, spent the first few weeks on desk duty, slowly working towards returning to the field.

It wasn’t an easy adjustment; he spent weeks avoiding the path that led by Reed’s desk, even though it now belonged to a young rookie who always smiled at him and drank far too many coffees for his own good. There were times when the precinct became overwhelming, anxiety rising, consuming, bringing with it warning signs and sounding alarms. Connor would retreat to a somewhere quiet place, be it the empty, bitterly cold courtyard or one of the neglected rooms that had been collecting dust and cobwebs for years. Hank found him wherever he went, would either sit down near him, in silence or offer a funny story from the day or leave him be, knowing Connor would emerge when he was ready.

Each day was a struggle, a battle to face, but he wouldn't give in, he kept marching forward, a soldier, a hero of his own story. On the awful days, which were decreasing as time went by, he allowed the sorrow to take over, released the anger when needed. He broke and built, fall apart only to heal, loving arms always there to catch him, to offer words of encouragement and support. Connor learnt a lot of helpful tips from therapy and group, could self-calm and navigate his way through minor panic attacks. When he was unable too when it felt like he was drowning in the black seas he'd reach out, find the light to guide him home.

Time passes, good, bad, okay and a handful of God-awful days roll by as the season's change. Come spring Connor has decorated nearly every surface with colourful sticky notes. Inspiring quotes and positive affirmations dotted the mirrors, walls at both his home, some had even made their way to work, secured to his desk for times of need. He goes to therapy once a week attends group and continues exploring types of creative therapy. At the end of winter, on the cusp of Spring, he ventures back out into the human world, following his friends to the movies and cafes, going on dates with Markus, revisiting favourite locations and discovering new ones.

He learns to live again, to be brave even when he is afraid, returns to the world step by step, day by day. And tomorrow he will be so very brave,  so very courageous. Tomorrow, after seven months of breaking and healing, he will sit down with Mia Jones, the kind-hearted journalist he met all those months ago on a cold winter's night and share his story with the world. It's been a long time coming, but he is finally ready to uphold the promise he made, is ready to reveal the truth.

Ready to set this story free.

But tonight, he is going to push all thoughts aside and enjoy a quiet evening in with Markus. Rosa will be arriving any minute now to pick North up for their third date, that’s if she can settle on an outfit. She’s currently twirling in front of the mirror, velvet purple dress flaring out around her legs. She looks pretty, looked pretty in the first three outfits, but Connor understands she’s channelling her nerves into this mundane thing. It’s strange to see North nervous; she’s always been so assured, confident in her body and herself, it was admirable.

It's taken Connor a long time to feel comfortable in his body again, to forget the feel of Reed's violent touch. It took a few months of therapy, and long conversations with North before Connor felt secure enough allowing Markus to see him naked. He felt uneasy without the thick layering of clothes, felt estranged from his body, fear tricking him into believing Markus would find his body undesirable. It took time, took encouragement from Markus, wise words from North and a lot of working through fears, but eventually, Connor was able to get undressed in front of Markus.

Slowly, ever so slowly, their intimacy grew, kisses growing heated, hands able to explore a little further, clothes able to be removed. They hadn't had sex yet, Connor's libido hadn't quite returned, but that didn't mean he and Markus couldn't be intimate again. It was North who suggested to Connor that he should try showering with Markus, it was a small step that would build trust and allow them to be intimate in a non-sexual way.

It was anxiety-inducing the first time, not because he didn't trust Markus, but because the voice in the back of his mind still whispered lies. He feared Markus would be repulsed by him, wouldn't want to touch the skin Reed had bruised, wouldn't want his leftovers. Markus destroyed these thoughts, shattered them with loving words and gentle kisses, the softest of touches to the places Reed had bruised. He loved every mole, every freckle and imperfection; he loved Connor, would never stop loving him or wanting to make love to him.

Showering together became their thing, heated make outs followed and Connor felt that soon he'd be ready to take things a little further, to once more feel Markus's hands between his legs, stroking him, pleasuring him. Soon, not yet, not tonight. Though he did have plans of running them a bath, had the candles all ready to light, he just had to get North out the door. She has finished twirling, deciding on the velvet dress and is now lacing up a pair of combat boots. Downstairs Connor can hear Markus return from his afternoon walk with Hope.

“North, you look great,” he assured, moving towards her so he could pluck some cat hair from the sleeve of her dress. “Is this about tonight? You weren’t even this worked up on your first date with Rosa.”

North sighed a little overdramatically, arms crossing over her chest in defeat, Connor and Markus were the only ones who could get her to open up without resistance. "I'm anxious about tomorrow," she turns the mirror, fiddling with her braided hair, "I'm ready to share my story, don't get me wrong, it's just a lot more nerve-wracking than I thought it would be."

“It’s okay to be afraid, North,” Connor placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, “you’re not the only one.” He was nervous about speaking with Mia, scared to share his story with his world, but it was time, he couldn’t keep quiet anymore. “Remember why we’re doing this.”

North pivots, staring up into Connor’s eyes, “For our people,” her soft pink lips pull into a warm smile, “for ourselves.”

“And so other survivors will feel empowered to come forward.”

“And know they are safe and have a place to go,” North added, the nervous energy evaporating from the air, tension zapping from her shoulders, the fiery, confident woman sparking back to life.

Downstairs the doorbell rings, ending their conversation. North pecks Connor on the cheek before taking off, leaving him standing in front of the mirror, smiling softly to himself. He's proud of her for taking a chance, for putting aside her hatred of humans and accepting the date with Rosa. It's a massive step for North, shows how much progress has been made and that humans and androids can live together, can even love one another.

Maybe even fall in love.

Connor feels a tail curl around his leg, looking down he sees Valkyrie gazing up at him through her big, bright green eyes. Markus would be feeding Hope after their walk; he'd be up any moment. Connor picks up the Bengal kitten, pressing a kiss to her fuzzy head before setting her on the bed, where she'll sleep until North returns. He can hear Markus in the living room, drawing the curtains, shutting out the night. Connor makes his way to the master bedroom, closing the blinds before slipping into the en-suite.

Connor turns on the faucet, adding drops of Sandalwood and Lavender to the water, lighting candles and flicking off the lights. He reaches out to Markus, calling him up as he sheds his clothes, stepping into the tub, submerging in the warm water. Markus appears in the doorway, clothes dropping to the floor as he glides gracefully towards the bathtub, movement almost trancelike. Connor shifts forward, making space for Markus to step into the tub, settling behind Connor, arms winding around his frame.

Connor exhales, lashes fluttering closed as he soaks in the serenity, reclining against Markus’s chest, safe, loved and protected in Markus’s arms.

“You look so beautiful like this,” Markus whispers, lips trailing gentle kisses down Connor’s neck.

"You always look beautiful." Connor murmurs, too lazy and content to move.

Markus laughs softly, breath tickling at Connor’s throat. “Can I wash your hair?”

Connor cracks open an eye, lips quirked into a tender smile. “Of course.”

This has become their ritual, whenever Connor runs a bath for them or invites Markus into the shower, he’d ask to wash his hair, sometimes he’d go further and wash Connor’s body, never doing so without seeking permission. His touch is gentle, hands steady as he massages his scalp or runs soap covered fingers down his neck, rubbing tension from the wires in his neck. Markus’s hands never strayed, he never asked for more than Connor could give even when left hard and needing release.

 _Soon_ , Connor thinks to himself. Soon he’ll be ready to _feel_ Markus’s hands, will be able to let them wonder and bring pleasure. He remembers how good sex can feel, how amazing it is to be entwined in Markus’s limbs, to have him buried inside. He can remember without panic, without spiralling back to that God-forsaken day, but his body still shivers, shudders when Markus’s hands dip too low. A thousand apologies fumble from his tongue, eyes filling with regret. Connor silences the words with kisses, reassuring Markus that it is okay, he got caught up in the moment, body reacting naturally to the stimulation and sounds being made.

It was okay, nothing to be sorry for. He stopped, he listened, and that’s what mattered. Markus doesn’t often let his desire get the better of him, and though at times it startles Connor, and he isn’t ready for more, there is a part of him that enjoys it. Markus still yarns for him, still finds him desirable and though Markus has reassured him countless times, his actions speak louder. He tells Markus this one day, wants him to know that it’s just an instinctive reaction and he wants very much to be touched.

It’s going to take time and failed attempts; there might be triggers or moments when he is unable to do more than kiss or fall asleep in Markus’s arms because he needs space, room to breathe. It doesn’t change anything, he loves Markus, wants to share his body with him again one day. He trusts Markus completely, their bond, their _love_ is unbreakable. It came to life in the aftermath of a revolution, survived the darkest hours, only to flourish once more in the light.

Until then, he is content to bathe with Markus, to get lost in the pleasure of a head massage rather than between the sheets.

It will happen.

He just needs a little more time.

**XxX**

Dawn gives way to a beautiful spring morning in Detroit, skies clear and bright, air filled with the promise of life, of change. Today has been months in the making, has arrived quicker than Connor anticipated, time seems to have sped up, has invited him back into the fold rather than leaving him behind. It’s nice to feel a part of the world again, to not be left on the sidelines, watching the days pass by, suspended in fear, stuck in the dark.

He's proud to be standing here amongst his friends, his fellow survivors, even if he's a little nervous. He's not alone though will never be alone. Not when the walls crumble, and the sky falls, not when he sets out to share his story with the world. His friends are here at his side, marching with him in pride, facing this day with him. North, Sky, Lexi, Caleb, Aria and Waverly are going to share their stories with Illumination, one of Detroit's most esteemed magazine companies.

Connor thinks Mia is the one responsible for organising this special issue dedicated to the androids who'd survived sexual assault. Mia is an Android supporter, an admirable and respected writer; it doesn't stop the anxiety though, this is never an easy story tell, the words will forever be sharp in his mouth, tasting of tobacco and blood. Fear will not hold his tongue, he made a promise to help others, to himself and he deserves to tell his side of the story, to tell the world what really happened. Reed's version has circled the media, whispered throughout the city, discussed on radio shows and by reporters. Connor setting the record straight, telling the city, the world the truth, showing them that he is human, and the pain Reed caused was very real.

Mia’s office is small but cosy, decorated in shades of pink and splashes of gold and white. It’s neat and presentable like her, feminine and charming. Connor likes Mia, her professional but bright attitude help elevate the fear. Her questions are chosen carefully, never invasive or harsh, always offering him the choice to not answer, stopping to make sure he doesn’t need a break. It’s not easy, the words hurt to speak, will always hurt to speak, but his story flows from his mouth, revealing the truth that had been muddled and twisted by Reed.

He speaks of the pain he endured, confesses that it felt like dying, that on that day he lost a part of himself. He admits to changing the memory that at the time he was so sure he wouldn't survive if he didn't. He tells her everything, not just speaking about the assault and the direct aftermath but the pain and trauma that followed. He speaks of the nightmares, tells her that the mental damage Reed caused nearly killed him, he suffered from panic attacks and seizures, months of crippling fear and guilt.

The words escape into the air, tears gathering in his eyes as an overload of emotions crash through him. He is afraid to stop, knows starting again would be so very hard, so he keeps talking. Tells Mia about the weeks before the march, how he'd felt undeserving of joining it, but a strange experience changed his mind. Connor doesn't want to share everything; the hollow, nightmare world is a story he wishes to keep to himself. It's a personal experience that he prefers to keep private. It's difficult to explain, for humans to understand but he does reveal that he had to forgive himself, that he had to let go of the guilt and shame and that anyone else feeling those things should do the same.

Voice heavy with emotions and cheeks damp with tears the story comes to an end, Connor deflates in the chair. God, that wasn't easy. It's never going to be easy telling this story but sharing it with Mia was liberating. It has the potential to help others, to speak to those who have been hurt and abused, encouraged them to come forward, to seek help. These stories will change the way humans view androids; it will help to see that they are alike, that just because they are machines doesn't mean they are unbreakable, unable to feel pain and sorrow.

They are alive, and they've carried this weight long enough. That's what their stories will tell the world; it will shout ‘we are alive' scream ‘you hurt us and now you have to take responsibility for that'. It's a brutal eye-opener for this city, for the world, but its needed. Is overdue.

“Thank you for sharing your story with me, Connor,” Mia says, blinking heavily mascaraed tears to scatter the tears that have gathered in kind green eyes.

“Thank you for letting me share it with you,” Connor rises to his feet, offering his hand for Mia to shake.

“Can I give you a hug instead?”

“Of course,” Connor steps around the desk, she is so small and fragile in his arms, at five-foot-three she is unassuming, but her fierce integrity asserts confidence. She is the kind of girl who will change the world for the better, the kind of person that the androids need on their side. “Thanks for everything Mia,” Connor steps back, smiling down at her, “we need more people like you in the world.”

"I'm only doing what's right," she said modestly, "your pain is real, Connor, the people need to know that. Your story deserves to be told, your ordeal acknowledged. I'm so grateful that you trusted me with this story, I won't let you down. I'm going to write one hell of an article and show everyone what a liar Reed was, make the doubters see the truth; you are alive, and it's time we stop fighting it and embrace you and your people."

Connor’s smile brightens, heart beating bright with hope for his people’s future, for his own future. “You are incredible Mia Jones; I hope you know that.”

She shrugs, bright glossy pink lips curling into a smile. "So are you, Connor, you're a hero, from what I hear." She winked at him, Connor shook his head fondly, he really liked her. "Now, c'mon we have a photo shoot to get ready for."

She opened the door, gesturing for him to go first. Connor stepped out into the light, finding Markus waiting for him by the water cooler, North, Skye, Lexi and Waverly are gathered to the left, dressed in matching white t-shirts that have we are alive written across the front in black writing, ALIVE surrounded by colourful flowers. North held out one for him to take, he accepted it, heart hammering in his chest as a sudden rush of nerves overcome him.

He could do this, could hang on a while longer, he was strong enough to speak his story, he could handle having a few photos taken. Swallowing the rise of anxiety, gripping the shirt tight, he let go of fear and stepped towards his friends. They were in this together, burrowing and sharing strength, offering comfort and reassurance. If he felt uneasy, felt overwhelmed, all he had to do was reach out and Markus, North, Skye or Lexi would reach back, would steady him.

But he doesn’t need to; he’s got this.

**XxX**

Connor steps out into the crisp evening air, letting the gentle breeze calm his mind as it ruffled cold fingers through his hair. The interview, while liberating, had been emotionally draining, plucking out memories and stirring awake an ache in his chest. Connor pulled back the curtains, revealing the pain he’d suffered, the trauma he endured, laying it all out in the open for Mia to weave into her article. It wasn’t until after the photoshoot, when Connor was leaving, heading to Hank’s for the night, that he realised how emotionally wrecked he was.

He declined Markus’s offer to drive him to Hank’s, after the hundreds of questions an hour under glaring white lights and exposed to the flash of a camera; he didn’t the time alone. To breathe, to feel the emotions jostling through him. He didn’t care, wasn’t overwhelmed by sorrow or systems flooding with fear, but he did collapse into Hank’s arms when he opened the door. He needed this, to return to the first place he called home, to spend an evening with the man who took him when CyberLife abandoned him, who did his best to protect him from the cruel world.

At times like this, Connor needed his dad.

There was no place like home, no safer place than in the arms of a loved one. He fell asleep on the couch, head pillowed on Hank's lap, calloused fingers carding through his hair. When he woke it was dark, Hank was dozing lightly, TV the only source of light in the room. As his CPU fired up, awaking programs and memories the day replayed in his mind, tinged in a positive light now the emotional exhaustion had ebbed. Yet there was a force that pulled him to his feet, a thought he couldn't quite catch leading out into the night, to stand under the stars, chasing it down the rabbit hole in hopes of catching it.

There was a thought, a feeling emerging in his mind, one that stirred awake hours ago but had been ignored, overlooked. Now it would not be silenced. It was thunderous. It took a while to understand, to unearth the meaning and emotions attached to the desire coming to life in his mind. It arrives without warning, a forgotten, neglected memory rising to the surface. Connor closes his eyes, and all he can see is his coin, the one given to him to by CyberLife to help him calibrate, but with deviancy, it became a habit, a tick. He longs for it. Though it could replace with it a thousand others, the urge to have this one and this one only is making him consider something that should leave him paralysed with fear.

“Connor?”

Connor turns around to face Hank; he's standing on the porch, worry evident in his tired blue eyes.

“Are you alright, son?”

“I have to do something,” he could wait for the sun to rise but there he is acting almost impulsively, the need to go now overwhelming. “Will you come with me?”

“Where the hell are we going?” Hank demanded as Connor ducked inside to grab the car keys, stopping only briefly to lock the door.

His mind was made up; he would give chase. “Back to the house,” he doesn’t need to add further explanation, Hank’s raised eyebrow and slightly shocked expression say he understands exactly where Connor means.

“What the hell for?” he isn’t refusing to go, but there is uncertainty in his voice, a hint of concern.

“I know you would rather go anywhere else in Detroit than go here, but I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

Connor needs this, needs it so suddenly and so much that he would go alone, would brave the night and the creatures hiding within it to complete this mission. There are very fraying threads left, most have been plucked free by time and healing hands, but this one demands attention, to be severed. A Memory needs to be laid to rest; a haunting place needs to be revisited, an object that had been lost is waiting to be found. He could say this to Hank, say a thousand things, but he doesn't need to, Hank must see the  _need_  in his eyes because he pat’s Connor on the shoulder then says ‘lead the way’ in a gruff, comforting voice.

"Thank you," he steps into Hank's arms, embracing him in a quick hug before grabbing his wrist and leading him towards the car. He lets out a shaky breath, inhaling deeply, letting air and courage fill his lungs.

He’s going back to the start.

To the place, he fell apart.  
  
***

The abandoned, dilapidated house looms over Connor, leaving him momentarily frozen in its shadow. It seems monstrous, a living, terrifying creature standing against the night sky, the broken windows its hungry eyes, the space where the door should be a yawning mouth. He blinks, and the image is gone, it’s nothing dangerous or horrifying. It's just a house. Is nothing more than timber and nails, bricks and mortar. It's falling down in ruins, will be demolished come summer and a shiny, modern estate will take its place. The footpath will be ripped up, and no one will ever know that a truck was parked on the curb and in that truck a life was taken apart. 

No one will never know that this is where Connor Anderson disappeared, and that's okay. They will know his story. Perhaps. It doesn't matter. What matters is why he came here in the late hours of the night, driven by a powerful urge to find what was lost. Dropping his gaze from the house he scales back the world, moving slowly towards the spot Reed so carelessly discarded him. There is a hole in the earth where he lay, where he broke and bled into a puddle of dirty water. It's painful to look at, vision frizzing momentarily, feeding him the memory.

He blinks it way, takes a steadying breath, focusing on the ground as he scans the soil, crouching down to dig away the fresh layer of dirt. His coin could be gone by now, carried away by a crow or scrounged for change. He can sense it though, can see the tiniest hint of silver like the first rays of light after a storm Like the first strands of hope after a dark time. He reaches for it, dirt sinking under nail beds as he digs it free, pulling at ugly memories that he refuses to let the resurface.

Fingers find cold metal, with one tug it comes free, he rises on shaking legs, examining it under the pale moonlight. It's rusted on the edges, tarnished by the weather but with some cleaning and care, it would be as good as new. It's a little poetic, a little bittersweet to see his coin in such bad shape when it was the only thing intact after the assault. He dusts it off the best he can. Satisfied, he flicks the coin into the air, catching it with steady hands. Smiling to himself he dances it over his knuckles, watching it glint silver in the moonlight. He's missed this, missed the feel of the coin bounce over synthetic skin, the way it calms him.

 “Son?”

Hank's voice interrupts his thoughts, the fright causing him to miscalculate and drop the coin. He'd been so lost in the past, in the waves of emotions crashing through him that he'd completely forgotten Hank was here.

“Shit, sorry,” Hank rushed towards him, instinctively pulling him into his arms. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s okay,” Connor reassured, “got a little lost in the moment. I’m back.” He offered a smile to show that there was no harm done.

Hank nodded, releasing him for his hold, eyes lowering to where the coin had fallen. "I kept meaning to replace this." Hank bent down, collecting the coin, studying it, understanding lighting up his blue eyes. "Even spent time searching for the exact same make, but I never found it. I guess I was never meant to. It was waiting for you to find it all this time." He holds to coin out for Connor, he takes it, cradling it tight between his fingers, like it was one of earth's finest treasures. "Why the sudden urge to come here?"

"I'm not sure," he admits, "I just knew I had too.” He paused, feeling a wave of relief hum through his wires, a sense of change, a shift that feels like coming up for air. Another string cut. “It feels like closure," he whispered, opening his palm to look at the coin, tarnished by the weather, but still glinting with a sliver of silver, "like coming full circle."

“You’ve come a long way since that day, Connor,” Hank reaches out, large hand resting on his shoulder. “You’re so brave, too damn brave for your own good sometimes,” he smiled warmly at him, eyes full of pride and admiration. Connor smiles back, but it feels feeble, a little off and it has Hank asking, “are you okay? It can’t be easy being here.”

He surrenders to his feeling, to the mixture of sorrow and relief, letting the last five and half months play out in his mind. A single tear trickles down his cheek, a shaky breath escaping his mouth as he concludes, that yes, surprisingly, despite where he is standing, despite everything he’s been through, he is okay.

"I'm okay," a smile graces his face as a sense of relief floods through his systems, sending another tear trailing down his cheek. He steps into Hank's arms, hugging him tight, thankful that he's here, grateful to have found such a loving, caring father. "I'm okay," he's truly, finally okay and it's such an amazing feeling that he can't help but laugh, a watery chuckle escaping into the night air.

Standing here, in this spot,  _unafraid_  feels as liberating as confronting Reed. This place is where he fell apart, it was the beginning of the darkest time of his short life and yet five and half months later, after months of healing and conquering fears, it no longer has a hold on him. Wind back the clock, to that cold, bleak Autumn afternoon and it felt like a part of him died in this very spot, and maybe he did lose a part of himself, perhaps there should be a cross standing here amongst the thistles and weeds.

It was a little death, a trauma that would last a lifetime. He sunk right into the darkness and it grew and consumed, almost taking his life. It took months of rebuilding, seemingly endless God-awful days and an inner strength he never knew he had to find his way back to the light. Connor found pieces of himself scattered along the road of recovery, collected forgotten jagged, shards, slotting them back into place. They leave cracks,  _scares_ , a reminder that he is fundamentally changed, that he’s not the android who once stood in this very spot. He’s not the android who was taken apart so violently by a cruel, twisted man, who was so distraught by what had happened to that he’d edited the memory just to escape the pain.

He's not the person he used to be, and that's okay.

Finally, under the glittering night sky, he feels free, unburdened. The weight at long last lifting from his shoulders, blowing away on the breeze, to somewhere far away, where it can do harm to none. The dark has run out; it's finally released him from its oily tendrils, its murky depths. He's found the light, it's in Markus's love, in Hank's smile and North's eyes. It's surrounding him, letting his heart beat bright. He knows the future is uncertain; the darkness could sweep back in with a vengeance on any day, anytime.

Life is a dangerous, messy thing, after all, but for now, the dark has run out and this,  _this_  is the reappearance of Conner Anderson, beautiful, broken, alive and a  _survivor._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is! The End! I wrote the final part three times. I wasn't sure if it should end with Connor and Markus, but then I decided that it started with Connor and Hank, it should end with them. I am also a big of ending the start, the full circle of closure is my aesthetic.  
> Also, I've seen a lot of characters face their rapist, and I wanted Connor to have the chance to reclaim his power, to see that Reed (who is a horrible shitty human being) isn't a monster. The idea was inspired by a few Peyton from One Tree Hill by Charlotte King from Private Practice.  
> Before I go, I want to say a big thank you to everyone who has commented, left a kudos and read this fic. You kept me inspired to write, to continue this story when I was tired and struggling to string a good sentence together. Thank you for the support <3  
> See you in the New Year!


End file.
